Pizza Boy
by Fluffy-CSI
Summary: Epilogue posted...FINISHED: Part 37 & 38 up GS – Sara’s leaving, but not the way you think…
1. No chance, no plan, no permanence

Title: Pizza Boy

Author: Fluffy/Karen

Rating: PG-13 for strong language

Summary: G/S – Sara's leaving, but not the way you think…

Disclaimer: These characters and their situation is not mine. Las Vegas isn't mine, either. Or New Jersey, though I do live there…

A/Ns:  I read this quote in a friend's AIM profile – I think it's a bit of a poem he wrote – and nearly jumped out of my chair because it was so damn right for G/S: "Would you miss me cause I'm leaving?  Would you hold me cause I'm lonely?  Course you wouldn't, that's not your style, that's not how you like your profile to look, one look, that might be all it took."

            Also, I know the existence of Sara's brother is in question, but it was handy for this story, so let's just assume he exists while you read this. JF's real-life brother is named Jeff, so I thought it'd be fun to use that name for him.

            Oh, and I have no idea whether Sara's supposed to have a middle name, or what it is if she is. "Sara Ann" just goes together well in my mind, so I decided to use it. And besides, Jorja's middle name is Ann. But I didn't think of that till I finished this, I swear.

            She threw another pile of clothing into the nearest box before wiping the sweat out of her eyes with the back of her hand. "Goddamn shit . . ." she muttered, following up with a stream of increasingly less sensible curses.

            Another blouse. Shove it in. She didn't know why she was hurrying to begin with; it wasn't like anyone was coming to stop her. If anything was for sure in this situation, it was that. Somehow, though, she still felt the need to hurry. To get out of here before she could stop herself.

This sucked. She didn't need this. She didn't know why she did this to herself. That was the problem, of course - she did it to herself. No one persecuted her until she forced them into it. Grissom wouldn't have said, "No," so coldly if she hadn't cornered him.

She didn't need this. She didn't need him, she didn't need Las Vegas, and she didn't need all this junk she was packing. Maybe she should just leave most of it here and leave her landlord a check to cover its disposal. Standing up, she stopped moving for the first time in hours to survey the disaster area her bedroom had become.  A neat metaphor for her life as a whole, she mused bitterly. Everything flung around willy-nilly, no sense and no plan.

She bent down again to jerk shoes and storage containers out from under the bed. The bed. The bed that she hadn't shared with anyone in recent memory. Certainly not with Grissom; he backed away from her if she even tried to touch his arm lately, let alone him coming anywhere near her bed. He no longer touched her, even incidentally. He used to be able to give her a quick hug if she needed it, or a pat on the back, but not anymore.

Despite all the times she'd visited his office, confusion and need plain on her face, he'd never moved an inch from his desk. "It's confusing," "Let's have dinner," "You wanna sleep with me?" Nothing made any difference – he never moved an inch closer. One step forward, two steps back. Same dance for the past four years.

He wouldn't miss her. Nick and Greg, sure. Maybe even Warrick and Catherine. Not Grissom, though, no way. That would ruin his image, and the man had a reputation to uphold. 

Yeah, she thought with a snort, a reputation as a cold, bloodless boss who didn't know his staff were living, breathing creatures. Paging her while she was two hours away on her day off, with nary an apology in sight. Pulling her out of a continuing education seminar because he didn't want to call one of the CSIs he actually liked.

Yep, Grissom had a reputation to maintain. He didn't want to be seen as having any emotion, and so he forced anything he did feel under the surface. Every now and then she'd gotten the feeling that maybe he did feel something. Every now and then he'd slip up and say something that could almost be construed as friendly, or even affectionate. "Since I met you." "I need you." Just enough to get her hopes up before he started ignoring her again.

Bastard.

It had been the thought of "If I can just get him to look at me, _really_ look at me," that had kept her here this long. But then the lab explosion came, and she tamped down her nerves and blurted it out. And he'd turned her down flat. Well no, not "flat." He'd told her he didn't know what to do about "this." "This" meaning, she supposed, that silly little infatuation she'd been carrying around and throwing in his way every now and then.

He didn't know what to do about it. Ok, fine. She did. She was leaving. No chance, no plan, no permanence.  Gone. She wasn't even sure where to yet, but definitely gone. To her brother's house tomorrow. Then she'd worry about where else.

The phone rang and she involuntarily tensed, caught between the fear that it was him and the hope that it was him. "Hello?"

"Hey little girl! Are you really coming to see me?" Her brother, sounding disgustingly upbeat.

"Oh, Jeff – hey. I'm uh . . . well, how much room do you have in your house?"

"Huh?"

"Room. How much _room_, Jeff? I need to know how much of my stuff I can bring."

"Whoooa there, hold on Sar. You mean this isn't just a visit? You want to move in?"

"Not exactly. I just need to leave Vegas, and you're going to be my halfway house while I try to find something else."

"It's that older guy again, isn't it. I always told you it was an idiotic idea, Sara Ann, and you never listened to me, not once! You really should . . ."

Her phone beeped. "Hold on," she ordered tersely, glad to escape the lecture, and pushed the flash button. "Hello?"

"Sara?"

She almost dropped the phone. It was him. Why him, why now? "Yeah." No emotion, don't let it through, be as cold to him as he is to you.

"Um . . . hi." He sounded nervous. Good, that made two of them.

"Yeah," she said again.

"I, uh . . ." His voice dropped off. Oh no, this had been what he'd sounded like after she asked him to dinner. "Can we talk?"

"No. I'm on the phone with my brother."

"Oh. Um, Sara, I just wanted to know if you're okay. You've been a little distracted lately."

Waving a hand carelessly, as thought he could see it, she forced her tone to lighten. "Nah, I'm fine. Listen, Grissom, I really have to go. Jeff and I are, uh, making plans."

"Ok. But Sara . . ."

The sound of his voice tapered off as she pulled the phone from her ear and pressed flash again. "Jeff?"

"Yep."

"Sorry. Listen, please don't start with the lecture. This has nothing to do with anyone else and everything to do with me. So just answer the question – how much room do you have that I could claim?"

A loud sigh came through the wires as he expressed his disapproval. "You shouldn't run, sis, but if you're not going to listen about that, then I'll just have to do the same thing I've been doing for your entire life: take care of you. You can have as much room as you need; I'll make room if you need it. I have a lot of junk anyway."

She sniffed back the sensation of tears. "Thanks. Do you have the flight information I e-mailed you?"

"Yep. 4:25 tomorrow afternoon, LAS to EWR. I'll pick you up by the baggage claim."

She smiled into the phone. "From the frying pan into the fire, huh. Well, at least I'm pretty sure I can get a job in New York City by you. Ok, I have to go pack some more – you wouldn't believe how much clothing I own, for someone who always wears the same thing."

"'Kay, hon. I'll see you tomorrow. Bye."

"Bye."

Click. She sighed. Jeff was going to start asking questions as soon as he got her in the car tomorrow, and she supposed she'd tell him the truth. It wasn't _all_ about Grissom, anyway – part of it was that she really didn't like Las Vegas to begin with. Really. The heat sucked and she hated tourists. Not that New York was exactly tourist-free, but it had fewer of them roaming the streets at any given moment, at least.

She wandered back to the bedroom, still lost in thought about what she would tell her brother. Oh, well. More packing. Picking up a pile of books, she threw them one-by-one into another box that was labeled "Go." Hmm, it was quiet in here. Too quiet. Time to turn on the mp3s. 

She was singing along with Puddle of Mud when a thumping interrupted her chorus of, "She fuckin' hates me." Ugh, she hated when the upstairs neighbors started up with that banging. Turning the speakers down, she discovered that it wasn't the thumping she was used to hearing when the neighbors got it on. No, this thumping was coming from the front door.

She huffed her way to the front of the apartment. If this was the pizza boy knocking on the wrong door again, she was really going to go nuts on him this time. Maybe she'd lift the pizza, then send him running. She pulled the door open two inches, frown already on her face.

"Hi."

She blinked. "Grissom, what are you doing here?"

"I brought you pizza. You sounded stressed."

Leaning the side of her face against the edge of the door, she made no move to remove the chain. "When am I ever not stressed, Gris? Now tell me the truth. Why are you here?"

A sheepish look crossed his face. "Honest to god, Sara, I'm here because you sounded . . . off. And I got worried. So I brought you food. Hey, free dinner at the very least, right?"

She didn't smile. "I'm not eating any food you bought me."

"Uh . . . why not? You eat food I pay for all the time at work when I cover lunch."

"This is different. This isn't work. I'm not cool with you paying for my dinner."

Grissom smiled. "Well there goes my idea for a date . . ." 

The door slammed in his face before he even finished the sentence, and he waited for the sound of the chain being removed. After twenty seconds of silence, he ventured, "Sara?"

"Go away," she said without opening the door. "You're not funny and I'm not eating your pizza."

"Well . . . will you eat something else if I bring it?"

"No! Go the hell away, Grissom!"

He shook his head at the door. "No can do. I'm not leaving until I know you're ok."

The door opened again, this time with no chain. "I'm fine, ok? There, I've said it twice now, are you happy? You know what, don't answer that, because you'll never get me to believe you actually give a shit."

Grissom was struck dumb. He'd come here determined to check on her, but he hadn't been prepared for her anger. The resolution was draining out of him now and he made one last attempt. "I _care_," he asserted indignantly. "I care about all my CSIs."

Wrong thing to say, apparently, as Sara's glare deepened and she made to close the door again. Desperately, he stuck out a hand to push against the wood. "How about if I leave the pizza, ok? I'll put it down out here and when you hear that I'm gone, you can come out and pick it up."

She wasn't going to be able to get rid of him any other way, Sara realized. "Ok, fine. Give it." She stuck out a hand for the box and pulled the pizza inside. 

As Sara moved to close the door for the last time, he put his hand on her wrist gently. "Hey, uh, Sara. Call me if you want to talk, ok? Really."

She gave him a skeptical look. "Yeah. Right. I'll call you. Bye." The door closed and she snapped the chain back into place.


	2. Musical phone calls

Part 2

Sara hated flying, as much as she'd ever hated anything. It wasn't so much fear of the plane crashing – she knew the odds of that were infinitesimal – as it was disgust with the plane itself. They didn't wash blankets or pillows between passengers. She always ended up seated next to some dirty old man who kept "missing" the armrest he grabbed for. She could never fit her legs in the space allotted to her, and the person in front of her always decided life would be more comfortable if they put their seat nearly in her lap.

She particularly hated flying when it involved her catching her flight when she should have been asleep or at work. Her flight today had departed from McCarran International in Las Vegas at 7:30 in the morning, which handily covered both of those problem times. To top it off, her seat was in the last row of the plane, against the back wall, making her unable to put her seat back more than an inch, and placing her all of two feet from the bathrooms.

By the time she stepped off the plane in Newark, New Jersey, Sara would have been quite pleased to kill the next person who spoke to her – perhaps kill them using her carry-on bag, which now had a broken zipper and a ripped lining. She dragged her pathetic-looking load up the terminal . . . and up the terminal . . . and then down the hallway . . . She eventually had to stop a bored-looking security guard and ask him to point her toward the baggage claim, then toward the escalator he used in his directions to the baggage claim.

If it were humanly possible, Sara was even angrier when she finally wrenched her suitcase off of the belt – it was the last one out, of course – and dragged it to a corner, looking around suspiciously for thieves (this was New Jersey, after all, and everyone knew how dangerous it was). Jeff wasn't anywhere in sight, and the layout of the baggage claim wasn't conducive to people-searching. 

Muttering nasty things about the East Coast, she tugged her suitcase another fifteen feet, settling against the nearest wall and deciding that her brother could damn well call her when he arrived. As if on cue, her cell phone rang.

Flipping it open, she snapped, "Where the hell are you, J?"

A cough. "Uh . . . who's Jay, Sara?"

Sara's eyebrows shot up and she gave the phone a suspicious look. "Grissom?"

"Erm, hi," he managed sheepishly.

"Why are you calling me this time?"

"I just wanted to see if your flight went ok, and whether you were set up for vacation. I can, uh, mail you anything you might have forgotten."

He hadn't yet figured out that she wasn't only on vacation. What to say? "Uh, no, Gris. I think I have everything I need. And I can buy anything really necessary. I'll be in New York, you know."

"Oh." Silence. "So . . . how was your flight?"

Sara was torn. She would have liked to chat with Grissom – god knew that she couldn't do that when she was at home – but she was propped against an airport wall in what she considered to be one of the least safe places in America, waiting for a brother who was supposed to have met her here twenty minutes ago. "It was fine," she finally said. "Listen, Gris. Not that I wouldn't like to talk to you, but I'm waiting for my ride and right now I'm trying to guard my suitcase and purse from the Mafia."

Grissom chuckled. "I think you're safe from the Sopranos in the airport, Sara. Are you waiting for your brother?"

"Yeah. Ok, hmm . . . I need to hang up, Grissom. I'll talk to you later or something." Without waiting for his response, she hit the "end" button and closed her phone, which immediately rang again. "What?" she demanded, opening it again. "Did you forget to say 'um' again?"

"Whoa, chill out Sara! I just wanted to find out where you're waiting for me. I had to park far out, so I figured I'd call instead of wandering around the airport."

"Well I'm standing by the baggage carousels at" – she looked up to check the nearest sign – "Exit 2. So get your ass up here, because I'm already feeling homicidal. And I'll remind you that I know how to get rid of a body."

Jeff laughed. "Right-o, sis. I'll be there in ten minutes or so. Be ready or I'm gonna tell Mom."

"Jerk," Sara said, grinning, and hung up the phone.

Sara's eyes were beginning to cross as she stared at the road and tried not to cringe as people cut them off right and left. "Um, Jeff?"

"Yep, what?"

"How much farther? This is way past my bedtime."

"Night owl," he mocked affectionately. "We're almost there – look for signs for Montclair, why don't you, if you want to feel involved."

"You need to look for signs?"

"Nope. But I figured it'd keep you entertained."

She groaned. "I hate you."

"You're not allowed to hate me, Sar. I'm giving you a roof over your head. Oh, speaking of which . . . did you give up your apartment in Vegas? Is this whole thing for real – I mean really for real – or did you just need to get away for a while?" He swung the car onto the exit ramp for "Grove St., Montclair." "Ten more minutes, I swear."

"I can't stay awake that long."

"Deal, Sara, geez! Now answer my question."

She scowled at him, then sighed deeply. "I don't know if it's for real. My lease isn't up on the apartment until the end of next month, so I have some breathing room, but I'll tell you that right now . . . right now it feels for real. Las Vegas wasn't good to me, J. I was weird before I moved there and I think I came out of it even weirder."

He reached over to squeeze her hand. "You're not weird, you're my little sister. I raised you this way, kid. You're going to have to tell me about it eventually, though, you do know that?"

"I know. Just not today. I'm too tired and too strung out and I think my brain is on strike." Having thus dismissed the issue, she gave up on fighting her fatigue and allowed her eyes to drift closed.

"Deal." He paused, turning into his driveway. "Open your eyes, kid. We're here."

She'd never seen her brother's new home. In fact, she hadn't seen him anywhere other than at their parents' house for close to eight years. "_This_ is your house?" Sara gaped at the looming three-story Victorian house in front of them. It was huge. It was huge and it was beautiful. "My god, Jeff, how much did this cost?"

"More than you're ever gonna make working with dead bodies! I kept telling you shoulda stuck with the industry instead of going government. You could be making millions at 3M or Lockheed-Martin or something, but you still haven't got rid of that annoying idealism."

"Shut up. I happen to love my job. At least when I don't hate it. Or hate my coworkers. But other than that, I love it."

"Up and out, Sar. I'm _so_ not carrying you in if you fall asleep in this car."

"I have this entire room to myself?"

"Dude, Sara, you have this entire floor to yourself! If you haven't noticed, I, a single man, live in a freaking huge three-story house. Even with the foosball and pool tables, I couldn't use up all this space. So make yourself at home, and like I said, if you need more room I'll fix things up."

A breath escaped her as she set down a suitcase and reality began to sit in. "Jeff . . ."

He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed. "I know, Sara. You don't have to say anything. I'm your brother, I love you, you know no matter how dumb you are I'll be here to pick you up. Maybe I'll laugh at you a little, but I'll be here."

Sniffle. "Thanks. It wouldn't be the same if you didn't make fun of me."

He released her and, with a pat on the head, left her to herself. "You want me to wake you up for dinner?"

"No, that's ok. I think I'm going to . . . sleep." She watched her brother's retreating back until he reached the stairway, then quietly shut the door to her room. She was incredibly tired, but there was no way she was going to get to sleep today. After a moment's consideration, she dug through her carry-on bag and retrieved her laptop. Noticing with pleasure that Jeff had a cable connection in this bedroom, she plugged in and booted up.

Two hours later, she re-read what she'd written and bit her lip. Did she really want to send this e-mail to Grissom? It was more . . . open than she would normally have been, to him or anyone else in Vegas. The distance between them was acting as a buffer, though, and from 2500 miles away, the words flowed more easily.

_Grissom,_

_I just wanted to write and fill you in on the stuff I couldn't talk about when you called earlier. Before you ask, yes, I'm home safe with Jeff. His place is amazing – I think it has more square-footage than the CSI lab in Vegas. Guess I did go into the wrong line of business! I don't know if you know this, but my brother and I both went totally the opposite of the way our parents wanted us to, but it was different opposites. You know where I ended up, and Jeff ended up doing the New York "Hollywood" scene – he writes and researches for one of those political talk shows. Must pay good money, considering this house. I have a whole floor to myself!_

_So . . . what else. Well, the flight sucked, but you know I hate flying to begin with. The dirty old man this time was more grope-y than usual, and I spent half of the time trying to curl myself into a ball that was all elbows. I'm telling you, if I get my chest or thigh grabbed "by accident" ONE MORE TIME . . .! And the chick in front of me had her seat in my lap from the second the plan took off. I really had to fight the urge to lean over the top of her seat (which was two inches from my head) and say, "Gee, am I in your way? Would you perhaps like me to shrink myself any more? Or would you rather just be wearing this disgusting thing that they call a meal when I slop it over your head?" But like I said, I got here safely and Jeff's got me set up in helluva nice place, so I can't complain._

_How are things back at the labs? I hope you're dealing ok with Greg now that I'm not there to charm him into doing what you want!  Maybe you can practice your charms on him now that I'm gone, huh? _

_Ok, maybe that wasn't as funny as it sounded in my head. Well, that's not the real reason I'm writing you right away, anyways. The real reason is this:_

_I wanted to remind you that my vacation time here is open-ended. I guess I just think it's only fair to tell you that I have to do some heavy thinking about whether I'm coming back there or not. Don't freak out on me or anything, please. I just need to think about it. Lately Vegas is making me feel . . . wrong. Trapped, maybe, or aimless. I'm not sure, I just know that I'm not happy there lately. *shrugs* I can't really explain it. You'll just have to take my word for it and try to understand._

_I'll definitely keep e-mailing you (and you can tell the others that I'll be writing to them too), so don't you start acting like I'm "being Sara" again, 'cause I don't want to hear it. _

_So, fill me in on Vegas stuff and I'll tell you about how Jersey is. I'll talk to you soon._

_                        Regards,_

_                        Sara_

            She read it for a third time, still worrying her lip. Was it too open? Too matter of fact? She knew Grissom was going to flip out when he read it – she'd have to remember to carefully consider answering the phone when caller ID showed his number. She really didn't want to have to deal with all that "The lab needs you" shit again. Whether the lab needed her or not, this time the decision was _hers_. She wasn't going to let anyone else influence it.

She clicked send and hoped she was doing the right thing.


	3. Good morning, sunshine

Part 3

Sun. The sun was way too bright – she needed to go back to sleep or she'd be exhausted by the time work started. With a grunt, Sara jerked the covers back over her head and rolled over. She was so comfortable; she'd had no idea that the thin sheets on the bed she'd bought in Vegas could feel so luxurious.

She was just beginning to drift off again when a cheery voice shouted, "Up and at 'em!" She shot up in bed – who had broken into her apartment? It took her a few seconds to assimilate what she was seeing: Jeff, in a business suit, stood in her doorway holding an apple in one hand and a small carton of orange juice in the other. She wasn't in Kansas anymore; this was New Jersey, not Las Vegas.

"Come on Sara, get up. It's morning, and while you're with me you're going to have to wake up for the day and sleep at night, otherwise I can't help you get around or anything." He paused for a second, giving her a wily look, then chucked the apple at her without warning.

"Ow!" Sara exclaimed as the fruit smacked into her palm. "Not so hard, play nice."

"You caught it, didn't you? You and your freaky reflexes. Eat, Sara – and here's some juice." He refrained from throwing the juice, choosing instead to place it on her night table.

Sara took a bite of the apple, then spoke through it. "You are the world's most sadistic man. Getting me up at the crack of dawn, when I should rightfully just be going to sleep after getting home from work. Why do I need to be up this early?"

"Because, my dear, you're coming to the City with me – unless you want to figure out how to navigate New Jersey Transit alone – and I'm leaving in an hour. So get up and get dressed, or I'm leaving you home."

"Ok, ok. I'm up." She shoved aside the covers and stood up, shivering in her thin pajamas. "God, why do you have to live somewhere so cold?"

Jeff laughed. "It's 72 degrees, sis. If you think this is cold, you should have been here last winter when it didn't get above thirty for something like three weeks." He cocked an eyebrow at her. "Besides, you need to get yourself some more body fat to keep you warmer."

"I live in Las Vegas! I sincerely doubt that I need to be kept warmer there."

"Mmmhmmm," he said with a smug nod. "I thought so. This is totally not the permanent situation you're making it sound like. Did you have a fight with your boyfriend or something?"

Sara's jaw dropped. "I don't _have _a boyfriend, asshole! And I am here permanently, unless I decide not to be. Now get out, I need to get dressed."

"Sure, sure. But you know I'm right. You're going to tell me about this on the ride in or I'll push you onto the tracks or something."

"Fuck off, Jeff." This was said without any real heat, though; she'd expected him to force it out of her eventually. She watched as he left the room. When did her brother get to be an adult who wore suits to work, anyway? It freaked her out.

She stepped back into her bedroom fifteen minutes later in a robe with a towel around her head, and settled down in front of her computer to check her e-mail while her hair dried. Spam ("Increase your manhood in 30 days!" – laughed at and deleted), junk mail from a listserv she was too lazy to unsubscribe from (A newbie posting "Me too!" – groaned at and deleted), more spam ("International drivers license lets you drive anywhere!" – cursed at and deleted) . . . a note from a friend in San Francisco ("Hey, how's it going?" – read and replied to) . . . and an e-mail from "Gil Grissom." Her heart started pounding.

She was almost afraid to open the e-mail. She knew what it would be – first, him expressing surprise that she was unhappy with Las Vegas (he always pretended to be the last to know these things), then a lecture about how the lab needed her good work (did she LOOK like she gave a damn what the lab needed?), and finally some small expression of his displeasure with her thoughts of leaving (maybe a comment about how he knew of another young woman who was a wonderful CSI . . .).

She opened it anyway, of course, and sat stiffly while she read it.

_Sara,_

_Well first off, I'll thank you for writing me. I appreciate your keeping me in the loop, so to speak. I'm also glad to hear that you've made it there safely, and that you've got plenty of room in your brother's house- is he married, or does he live there alone? I must say that I'm jealous of such a large house. You know how mine is; they took a closet with five sections and labeled it "town house."_

[No, she thought, I don't know how yours is. I've only seen it once, and that for an hour at most.]

_Too bad about your flight over there; I can just imagine how annoying it must be to have men hitting on you. _[Was that SARCASM, Gris? Nahhh!] _You ought to tell them you have a boyfriend or something. I have no solution to offer for the seat-in-your-lap problem, sorry. Congratulations, though, on holding in your temper and not actually dumping your lunch over the woman's head. I wouldn't like to get a phone call from you saying you'd just arrived in New Jersey, and could I please bail you out of jail!_

[Like I'd call you, Grissom. You'd be the absolute LAST person I'd call in such a situation. I can just imagine the lecture I'd get. But gee, thanks for the "congratulations" on my having self-control.]__

_So you escaped the arms of the Mafia, huh? Good for you! New Jersey isn't really the pits of hell, you know. The area you're in (you said your brother lives in Montclair, right?) is actually a rather wealthy area; a lot of old mansions and multi-story houses with servants' quarters still built in. I've driven through it on trips to New York. You said on the phone that you'll "be in New York," so I assume that you'll be spending time in the City, but I hope you'll spend some time around your brother's house too. There's a college just down the road you might like to check out; they supposedly have very modern scientific facilities._

_Well . . . having said all that, I guess it's time for me to address the meat of your e-mail – I sincerely wish I didn't have to, but it would be rude and unfair of me to ignore it._

[I'll just bet you do wish that. God forbid you have (gasp!) emotions, and be willing to (double gasp!) express them!]

I'm very surprised to hear about your lack of content here in Las Vegas. I wish you had told me before; I'm sure we could have - and still could - work something out so that you feel more comfortable here. It would be a true tragedy for the lab to lose you for so simple a reason.

[Simple? Excuse me??? Who said it was simple? God, this is exactly the reply I expected from him. Well, add it to the list of reasons why I shouldn't go back.]

_I hope you don't think I'm going to "freak out" on you just for expressing your opinion to me. That doesn't reflect well on our working relationship, and I'd like to think I'm more sensitive to my team's needs than you make it sound._

[BullSHIT, Grissom! If you believe that, then you're even blinder than you look, and I didn't think that was possible.]

_Is there anything I can do or say to make you reconsider? I know that you have a strong will, Sara, but honestly, I had no idea you were so unhappy. It pains me to think about it, and it pains me even more to think that I may have had something to do with making you that uncomfortable. I guess an offering of pizza just doesn't cut it, huh?_

_Please write back to me and keep this dialogue open. Anything I can do for you to make you want to come back, I will do._

_                                    Yours,_

_                                                Gil_

Sara sighed heavily. She'd had a tiny hope that this note would be different than she'd expected, but it had been dumb of her to hold on to that. He'd said exactly what she'd thought he would. "I didn't know you were unhappy"; "The lab needs you." Well, except the last part of the e-mail. That had seemed like maybe he actually had something of substance to say. No such luck, though; he'd cut off before he could incriminate himself. As she was about to close out her e-mail reader, though, she noticed that the scroll bar indicated that there was more to his letter. She drew it down another inch until more text appeared.

_P.S.      Ok, well, what you just read was what I came up with on the first try. Now I'll say what I think I left out. Please don't leave Las Vegas permanently, Sara. Everyone here cares very much for you, and they'd be devastated to know that you're not happy with them. I think that I speak for the entire team when I say that._

_            Having assured you of, I need to ask: did I influence your decision in any way with the way I acted a few nights ago? I didn't mean to make you uneasy, Sara – I really just wanted to make sure you were ok. I thought that you'd been acting somewhat odd for a while (odder than usual, that is, haha! j/k), and I guess the reason was that you were considering really leaving . . . but I didn't know that then. I was hoping that you'd be willing to talk to me about whatever was bothering you, but I realize now that I was expecting too much._

_            We've known each other for so long, you know, that sometimes I do feel that I have a bit more insight into you than anyone else around us. What worries me is that now that insight is telling me that you're not just searching for attention (not that that's your style to begin with), or threatening so I'll give you a raise, or even trying to "pay me back" for anything I've done. What I read between the lines of your e-mail is true resolve. You really are doing a lot of heavy thinking about this, and I respect that._

_            That said, I'll repeat the point I truly want to get across to you with this note:_

_            If there's anything – ANYTHING – I can do to help you understand this, or to convince you that you can be happy in Vegas, please tell me and I'll do whatever's in my power to do for you. Just don't shut yourself off, as I know you're tempted to do._

_            How do I know you're tempted? Because if I were in your position, I would already have cut myself off. Don't be like me on this, Sara._

She was startled out of her reading just as she reached Grissom's last sentence by a bang on the door of her room and the boom of her brother's voice. "Yo! Kid! Get your butt out here, you're gonna make me late for work!"

"Yeah, one sec!" Quickly, she tossed on some clothes and knotted her hair back, reflecting all the while on what Grissom had written. The P.S. had really knocked her for a loop; Grissom had actually expressed emotion, and that worried her. Why was he being so nice all of a sudden, when he'd been so cold for years? It wasn't like him, and she sensed that he had an ulterior motive that he was concealing. 

Maybe he was right about the whole "insight" thing, but it worked both ways. She knew him as well as he knew her, and she could tell that Grissom wanted something from her; she just didn't yet know what it was.


	4. I'm a Jersey girl!

**A/N: **This chapter is for all my fellow Jersey girls, you guys'll get the jokes J

--------------------------------------------

Sara checked her watch and tossed her bag on the bed with a groan. It was 7PM and they'd just arrived back at Jeff's house. New York was . . . more than she'd expected, and not necessarily in a good way. She wondered how Jeff had adjusted so well to the public coldness that seemed to be unique to this area. 

California, Boston, and Las Vegas had all housed reasonably friendly people who would stop and hold a door for you or give you directions if you asked, but New York City wasn't anything like that. She'd almost been knocked over twice when people plowed past her at lights, and Jeff had laughed when she asked him why she was getting weird looks, then explained that around here, you didn't look anywhere but straight ahead unless you were a tourist. The final straw had been when he'd dragged her along behind him on the way to the train station, telling her sternly that she walked entirely too slow to ever live here.

Maybe she didn't want to find a job here after all, she thought, then immediately checked herself. What, was she scared of the big, bad city? Sara Sidle was _not_ a wuss who refused to learn to adapt to new places. With a decisive snap, she flipped open her laptop.

She may not have been that sort of wuss, but she _was_ a wuss who was afraid to answer Grissom's e-mail, and thus deal with it. Her finger hesitated over the touch pad as she debated opening her e-mail program, then finally tapped the surface lightly. Just because she was checking her e-mail didn't mean she had to reply to him. She didn't have to answer him. Of course she didn't have to answer him. Why would she answer him so quickly? She didn't owe him a response. Really. There was no reason to be so worked up about it, anyway.

No reason at all. Just because there was some meaning lurking behind his words that she couldn't identify, just because she hadn't yet thought of a good enough reply to begin with . . .

With a sigh, she forcibly stopped that train of thought and scanned her inbox. Lots of spam (Who the hell was selling her address, anyway? She was going to hunt them down and . . . sign them up for porn newsletters or something), another note from the listserv, and . . . ooh! An e-mail from Greg and one from Nick! She eagerly double-clicked Greg's mail – he was sure to have something upbeat to say.

_Hey there Sara! _

_Wazzup in NJ? Lab here is fine, pretty much, though you know it's just not the same without you. Grissom's up my ass, but that's normal. I swear, one day I will figure out what he wants and give it to him, and he won't know what the hell to say to me then. But enough about here, you know about Vegas. _

_So tell me about the evil East Coast! Where in Jersey are you, anyway? What exit on the Parkway, and can you smell the raw sewage from your window (haha)? Just promise me you're not gonna come back a nuclear mutant. Though, come to think of it . . . that'd be pretty cool if you had a fun superpower like telepathy or x-ray vision! Er, ahem, well, as I was saying. How is vacation treating you so far? Are you gonna hit the shore? Bring me back a souvenir, ok? Something Jersey-esque like a airbrushed t-shirt . . . or a girl with big hair (ooh, mail-order girlfriend!)._

_Ok enough with the questions, sorry. I suck at writing e-mails like this, so I'll give you some info now instead. I know I said the lab was okay, and it is, but dude it's so weird without you. Nick and I are bored with no one to show off to (Catherine just isn't as amused as you are by our tricks), and he totally feels lonely without you at work. Poor kid. Er, well, I feel lonely without you too, though, just for the record! Catherine's a little off-balance too, I think 'cause she's the only girl here again – you know, she likes getting all the attention, but she's not used to it ever since all of us guys fell in loooove with you! She's spending a lot of time hiding out somewhere with Warrick. I swear that those two are on the S.S. Doin' It 24/7. They deny it, but oh, I have eyes that see all!_

_Ok but what's really weird is Grissom. No, wait for it . . . he's being even weirder than USUAL! He was ok for the first day or so. Being normal, you know – like he didn't even know one of his team was on vacay. But then last night he started looking distracted. He forgot to yell at me twice in a row, Sara. The man's losing it! Ok, but I know you want more detail so you can laugh along with the rest of us._

_So how do I describe this. Ok so he came in last night with a file folder that no one recognized, and then it disappeared somewhere in his office – Cath couldn't find it when she went looking later. Then (I got this part second-hand from Nick later) when he gave out assignments he sent Cath, Warrick, and Nick all out together on one case, and put himself alone on another, which is apparently very weird for him. And THEN (this part came from Brass) he was talking to himself while he went over the scene, but not the normal sort of muttering to himself. Brass says he thinks he heard him muttering about someone moving, and a pizza. Who knows, maybe he's moving away to be a pizza delivery man!_

_But then like I said he forgot to yell at me, and Cath watched him stare at his laptop for something like half an hour straight without doing anything – no typing, no clicking, no nothing. _

_So I dunno what's up with him, but I thought you might like to hear about it. You know we can't survive without you here. Come home, my darling! *melodramatic swoon*_

_                                                Greg_

            Interesting . . . very interesting. So apparently Grissom had spent most of the night thinking about her, or what to write to her, or something. She wasn't sure if that was really a good sign or a bad one, but she knew it was a sign of something. Well, maybe Nick had more to contribute to the puzzle. She closed Greg's e-mail and opened Nick's.

_            Hey you! Miss you muchly, Sara, you gotta get back here! Everyone's totally confused without you, we're so used to having you there to straighten us out when we screw up and stuff. I feel like I'm about to run into a wall or something._

_            Hmm, so maybe that's just me being me and walking into things . . . but I'm serious about us all missing you. Cath and Warrick even came up for air long enough to mention that it's weird without you here. She said it was kinda cool to be the only female again and get all the attention, but then Warrick was like, "Yeah but it balances out so much better with you all blonde and talkative and her all brunette and introverted." That shut her up fast, but she laughed about it later, so don't worry that he got himself in trouble. It's true, though, it does feel unbalanced without you here to talk back to people._

_            Greg's carrying on in his lab about missing you; you'd think you'd never had a day away from the lab at all the way he talks. "Oh, it's just not the same . . . I can't go on without Sara . . ." Heh, you really gotta put the kid out of his misery one of these days. He's so in love with you, and David too! Well I know you tried to tell David you weren't interested, but I think the two of them have a Sara Sidle Fan Club going on or something. But at least they're funny; I need something to amuse me without you here to make fun of when I get bored!_

_Ok but here's the kicker, and I know this is the part you want to hear about the most: Grissom. Oh, don't you start up about how you two don't totally want each other, you know we all know about it (well, except for him). Ok so anyway, he's gone a little wonky. Barely talked to us when we were all at the lab (ok, so maybe that's not so weird), then he had this phantom file that he wouldn't let us see (you haven't been sending him love letters or something, have you?). And then here's what's really weird: He's gone soft! The man didn't say a gruff word to any of us all night, even Greg. _

_It's like he thinks you ran away and he's trying to keep the rest of us from following or something. Let me tell you, it's freaky as HELL when Grissom starts playing Mr. Nice-Supervisor-who-understands-our-problems! He actually asked – ASKED – me to process some prints. I can't remember the last time he asked me to do something instead of ordering me to do it. You're the only one he asks to do things ;) _

_No, but really. Catherine pointed out a little while ago that he worked a case alone last night for the first time in forever. We were all wondering whether he was going to retire and hand the job over to Cath (don't ask – you know why we didn't mention it to you), the way he's been going, but this set us straight! Either you leaving gave him his confidence back (slightly possible) or he wanted to be alone so he could spend the whole night thinking about you. My money's on the second one._

_So . . . when exactly are you coming home? No one's bothered to tell me that part yet. And how's New Jersey? Man, that's so not where I'd choose to go on vacation, you weirdo. What's there to see in Jersey, anyway? Tomatoes and pollution? Eh, I guess you have your reasons (which, if you're not catching the hint, I'd love to know about), but dude, keep me filled in. If I'm stuck in this place, I want to at least know you're having fun!_

_Ok I gotta go, I'm so tired I'm about to pass out on my keyboard. Write me back and I'll talk to you later!_

_                                                Nick(y)_

Sara's mind struggled with which emotion to address first. The guilt about not having told anyone that she might be gone for good? The laughter about everyone's reactions to her being gone? Or the morbid fascination with what was going through Grissom's head that was making him act so weird that people were noticing?

No contest, of course; she flopped back onto the bed, heaved a sigh, and began mentally analyzing Grissom's reactions. So he had been disturbed by her e-mail; that much was clear. What the hell was in that mystery file? Had he started compiling a new personnel file for her, or writing her recommendations in anticipation of her deciding to stay in New Jersey? Maybe he had printed out the e-mail and brought it along so he could dissect it during his free time. 

The latter was probably the most likely; Grissom would be determined to mine out every bit of information and nuance he could before he put her note aside. It must have upset him quite a bit to make him write her back what was, for him, a highly emotional plea for her not to leave. Or maybe he was plotting strategy with the e-mail, not composing an apology. Maybe the apology (could she really call it that? She wasn't sure, but she couldn't think of a better word) _was_ strategy . . . maybe he was playing on her emotions. He'd certainly used them to his advantage other times.

What was she going to say when she wrote him back? There really wasn't anything she could tell him to do that would suddenly make her want to come back like nothing had ever gone wrong. Well, except for, "I'm sorry; I know I was wrong to treat you so badly, but I'm in love with you."

And she somehow doubted that that particular statement would make its way into his next e-mail.


	5. To tell the truth

"You're not hiding out here forever, Sara. I hope you know that."

"Jeff! You said I could stay as long as I wanted!"

"And I'm not saying you can't stay now. I'm saying you can't _hide_ here. You've been here for five days and you haven't done anything but mope around the house. If you want to stay, you're gonna have to start looking for a job and acting like you really want to get your life together instead of mooching off me."

"Excuse me? _Mooching_? Listen, if you don't want me here just say it and I'm gone. I can find my own place to stay, I don't need you."

Jeff laid a hand on her shoulder when she moved to walk away. "Hey, hey, slow down. Of course I want you here. I haven't seen you in almost two years and there's no way I'm going to send my little sister to a hotel in a strange place when I have more than enough room here."

"Then why are you telling me I can't 'hide out here'?" Sara shook her head and shrugged off his hand. "I'm not getting you."

He set down his briefcase and shooed her toward the kitchen. "Go. I'm making coffee and we're sitting down to talk about this." When he'd herded her in, he got to work and set two shots of espresso perking, then sat down facing her. "Ok. Let me go through this again. You can stay here as long as you want. I want you to stay here as long as you want."

"Then why . . ."

"BUT. What I don't want you to do is to use me and my house as a hiding place just because you don't want to go back to Vegas and deal with whatever sent you running here in the first place. Are you following me?"

Her eyes narrowed but she nodded. "Yeah, I think I get the point. But I'm not 'hiding' here, as you put it. I'm _considering_."

"Considering what, Sara? Every time I've asked you what the hell is going on, you put me off. I think it's about time you told me why you're here to begin with so I can try to understand what it is that you're considering." He got up to retrieve the coffee, sliding one cup to her and keeping the other. "So drink up and spill it, kid."

"One sec." She dug in her purse and retrieved a bag of M&Ms. Breaking it open, she palmed five and stuffed them into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. Letting out a sigh, she sat back. "That's more like it. Ok. You really want to know all this? You're going to laugh at me."

"I'm not going to laugh at you! Honest to god, I care about what's happening to you and I want to know if I can help."

"Fine." Another helping of candy, then a sip of espresso, and she began to speak. "So there's this guy named Grissom . . ."

"The old dude. I freakin' knew it!"

"Would you shut UP? If you want to hear this, then listen, don't make smartass comments," she snapped. When he held up his hands in surrender, she gave him a warning look and continued. "As I was saying, there's this guy named Grissom who I've known practically since I left school. He was the reason I moved to Vegas – he called when he was having a staffing crisis, and I was bored with California anyway, so I went up there." Catching the look on his face, she waved a hand. "I know, you know all this. But it's part of the story, so just listen.

"So I went to Vegas. I hadn't seen him in a few years and I figured at the very least I could get to see my friend before I went back home. We'd spent a lot of time together when we first met and I had a crush on him, like a teacher-student thing, so I was all for it.

"Then when I got there I decided to stay, since it was one of the best labs I'd ever seen, and the people were pretty nice, at least considering that they didn't want me there. And best of all Grissom was there. Problem was, the more time I spent there the bigger my crush got. And we're talking _major_ crush. Like, I didn't even bother to look at any other guys because he is – was – it."

Jeff cut her off before she could start her next sentence. "So this whole thing _was_ about him. I asked you that before and you said it wasn't, you liar. Ok, so you have a crush on this older guy who taught you at one point, so does half the world. What the hell happened that suddenly you can't even look at him anymore?"

Another pile of M&Ms, this time nearly an entire handful, and she sighed. "You do realize that you're sitting here with me watching me eat chocolate? And you don't find this at all strange?"

He grinned. "I thought maybe it was some chemical thing. Coffee and chocolate . . . maybe you needed a huge caffeine fix, or a serotonin boost." He helped himself to a candy, then raised an eyebrow. "So? Keep talking."

"Ok well like I was saying the longer I stayed the more into him I got, but he was doing the opposite. The longer I was in his lab, the less he worked with me or even bothered to talk to me. I almost quit, like, a year and a half ago – I was gonna check out the FBI . . . but then he sent me a plant and I decided that maybe I was just being pessimistic and that I'd give Vegas another chance. And then the next time we worked a case together he was majorly nice to me, and I was like, 'Ok everything's cool again.'"

"But it wasn't, I assume, since you're here."

"Right." Her face darkened and she stared down at the table, looking as though she wished she could punch it. "It wasn't 'cool again.' Things went downhill again from there, and he was hardly talking to me. But the worst thing – this is what _really_ got to me – is that it wasn't consistent. One day he'd be nice and act like he actually valued me and my input, then the next day he'd stare through me like I wasn't even there and talk to me like I was five, if he talked to me at all. Do you have any idea how freaking frustrating that is? I could never tell whether today would be good or bad, whether I should walk into work happy or depressed.

"So I was already on edge to begin with, and then we had a substance explode in the DNA lab, and the whole place went to hell. I got cut up a little bit but Greg – he's the DNA tech – got knocked out and badly burned, so I was sitting outside on the curb, waiting to see him when the paramedics brought him out, and Grissom suddenly comes up to me and starts asking questions. Was I ok, did anything hurt, and so on.

"I told him I was fine, but then he picked up my hand and looked at the slash on it" – she held out her hand to her brother, showing him the still-fading scar – "and went, 'This doesn't look good, honey.'  He called me _honey_, and at the most random time Then he just walked away again."

Jeff caught her hand and took a close look at it. "This was deep, huh?"

"It was only about an inch deep . . . I got stitches, but it wasn't like my hand was going to fall off or something." With her free hand she upended the M&Ms bag into her mouth and polished off what remained inside it. "Can I have my hand back, please?" she mumbled through a mouthful of melting chocolate.

"As long as you keep talking and finish the story."

"Yeah, I am. Chill. Ok so as I was saying, he called me 'honey' then walked away. So the next day, after I got my head together and figured out what the hell was going on, I decided that I was sick of being so off balance and I wanted to get this shit settled, one way or another. So after shift two days after the explosion I went to his office and asked him out to dinner. I figured he'd either say yes or no, and either way I'd have my answer."

"I think I can see where this is going." He drank the last bit of his espresso and gave her a sympathetic look. "He said no."

"Yeah, he did, but then he said,  'I don't know what to do about . . . this'," she clarified, adding a mocking emphasis to the word "this."

Jeff blinked. "What's 'this'?"

"I guess he meant my crush on him. Or something like that. I don't know, he didn't exactly stop to explain things. I tried again just to be sure and he said no again, and I was like, 'Fine. Well by the time you do know what to do it'll be too late.' Or something like that, I wasn't exactly rational at the time. And of course he had no response to that – he never has a response when I say something that would actually require him to express emotion – so I left.

"And then when I got home, I got to thinking about everything, and I realized that the whole reason I had stayed there was him, and now he was just giving me more and more reasons _not_ to stay. So I thought about it for a couple weeks, and when things didn't get better at work, I decided that there wasn't any point in sticking around any longer. That's when I called you."

There was a minute of silence as he processed this, then Jeff sat back and crossed his arms. "What else?"

"What do you mean what else? I just told you what happened."

"That wasn't everything, Sara Ann. There's more between when you called me and now that you're not telling me."

"Was _too_ everything."

"Was _not_."

"Too!"

"Not!" Realizing that they were arguing like children, Jeff cut himself off. "If you don't tell me the rest of it I'm not feeding your coffee habit anymore and I'm moving you to a room without cable."

"Ew, you bastard!"

"Yep, that's me. Just don't let mom hear you say that. Now come on and tell me the rest."

She sighed. "Fine. Well when I was on the phone with you he called  - that was who was on call waiting – and started asking me what was wrong. He said I'd been acting weird lately and was I ok, and could we talk. I was like, 'I'm fine, and no we can't talk, I'm on the other line,' and hung up on him. So then I finished talking to you and hung up and went to my bedroom to pack.

"Maybe an hour later I heard a knock on my door and figured it was the idiot pizza boy delivering pizza to the wrong apartment like he always does, so I open the door and there's Grissom standing there holding a pizza for absolutely no reason I can ascertain. I asked him why he was there, and he gave me the 'You've been acting unusual' spiel again. Then he said I'd sounded stressed so he brought me pizza."

"Um, Sara . . . and you're saying this guy knows you? He hasn't figured out yet that you're stressed 24/7, no matter what?"

"That's what I said to him! He just shrugged it off and said well, he'd brought me dinner, so at least I got a free meal. That didn't sit too well with me, as I'm sure you figured out, and I told him I was not eating a dinner that he'd paid for. Ok then here's the part that pissed me off so bad I wanted to hit him: he goes, "Oh, well there goes my plan for asking you out on a date!'"

"Ouch. And you managed to _not_ hit him?"

"Yeah, aren't you proud of me? I shut the door and yelled at him to go away, but he told me he wasn't leaving until he knew I was ok. So I said I was fine, I took the pizza, and he left."

"That everything?" he asked skeptically.

"Not quite. We've been e-mailing while I've been here. Well, we were. I haven't answered his since the second day because I don't know what to say. When I wrote and told him I might be gone for good he wrote back asking what he could do to make me stay. And I haven't come up with anything yet. So . . . I just didn't answer him."


	6. Talking in circles

**A/N: I know that this format closely resembles "E-mails from the Lab" by Annie Lune. I didn't consciously copy her idea, but I did read her story and find it very cool, so it might have been subconscious. So I'll just give credit where it might be due – this "e-mails making up a chapter" format was definitely created by Annie Lune and not by me.**

_Grissom,_ Sara typed slowly.

_Sorry about not replying to your e-mail. Things have been a little hectic here because I've been scouting out the NYC crime labs and seeing if any of them are hiring. You know, considering that they're in probably the best-known city in American, the labs here aren't all that great. _

[Right, Sara. Never knew I was such a good liar, I should try this more often.]

_Not that they're bad, exactly, it's just that there seems to be a lot more apathy over here – in the police force and in the CSIs. No one got excited over finding evidence while I was there, no one stopped to see who the stranger prowling around their lab was, and no one offered to give me a tour. I think that if we got a similar visit in Vegas, we'd definitely be doing all three of those things._

_But then, that pretty much reflects my general impressions of this area. I really like New York; don't think I'm saying I don't. It's just that I'm not used to the "mind your own business" concept being adhered to almost religiously. Very few people hold doors or even look at you when you walk. My brother says that's because making eye contact up here is considered threatening. Gee, I never knew that humans did that too – I thought it was just animals who would attack someone who looked in their eyes._

_Well, no, I take that back. If I phrase it that way, it seems a lot more likely. I've had my share of being attacked for looking in someone's eyes and stuff like that._

_Um, sorry, that was a little off topic. So anyway, I did find a few leads on jobs, but I'm going to spend some time looking at the county labs here in New Jersey, too, or maybe even the city labs for Paterson or Newark. Erm . . . maybe not Newark; that was a little scary. But Paterson, from what I saw of it (admittedly not much) didn't look too frightening, and besides, I know how to take care of myself in a city._

_So, as I said, things have been a little hectic. Jeff's bringing me to work with him a lot of the time, too – you should see what goes on in these political meetings, it's incredible! When that gets too heavy, or when they lock themselves in and have an Important Discussion That Is Private, I do some wandering around the streets. Jeff's building is in a pretty good area, so I'm in no danger out there alone. Did you know that you can get McDonald's *delivered* if you're uptown? Not that I would, McDonald's is disgusting, but I find it fascinating that you can even get fast food delivered around there. So I'm getting a pretty good dose of the NY metro area lifestyle while I'm here. Vegas is so completely different. I expected things to be kinda like L.A. in New York, but they're nothing like it. Haven't seen any gang shootings, for one thing._

_So, what's going on at the lab? I heard from Greg and Nick, they both said they missed me and that I should come back. Actually, if I remember correctly, Greg told me that he "couldn't live without" me and that Catherine doesn't laugh at his jokes as well as I do; Nick said that Catherine and Warrick even took the time to remark on missing me and . . . well, uh, he also said that you seemed distracted. Guess it's weird without me there, huh? No one hanging on your every word anymore, I expect, unless Catherine's done an about-face or you've cultivated Nick's hero worship._

_Oh, and out of curiosity . . . what was in that folder that you were carrying around work last week? Both guys mentioned it in their e-mails and no one seems to know what was in it. They'll love me forever if I can tell them the answer!_

_                                                Sara_

_*******************************************************************_

_From: Gil Grissom grissomg@nevadaonline.com _

_Date: Saturday, July 26th, 2003 9:42 A.M._

_To: Sara ssidle@hotmail.com _

_Subject: Thanks_

_Sara,_

_I'm not surprised to hear about the lack of enthusiasm in the New York labs. We *are* the number two lab in the country, remember, and NYC certainly isn't the number one. I guess when you can't do your best work, you stop caring about it. The suburban New Jersey labs are probably better, but I'm sure you know that if you want a really good lab in that area, you'll have to move to Connecticut. Though I know that my opinion won't exactly play a part in your choice, I honestly don't think you'd be content there – in New York, New Jersey, or Connecticut. They just don't seem like your style, if you know what I mean._

_Reading the rest of your e-mail, Sara, I have to say that I've never known anyone who could dance so artfully around an important question as you can. You've completely ignored the topic of my last e-mail, and I find that frustrating. I wish you would just answer me so I know what I can and cannot do._

_                                                Grissom_

_P.S. I can't believe Nick and Greg are gossiping about me to you. No, I won't tell you about "the folder," and I'm going to kill them both for bringing it up to you. That was none of their business, and by extension, none of yours._

_*******************************************************************_

_From: Sara Sidle ssidle@hotmail.com_

_Date: Saturday, July 26th, 2003 10:38 A.M._

_To: Grissom grissomg@nevadaonline.com_

_Subject: Re: Thanks _

_Grissom,_

_Well, that was bitchy of you. Way to completely ignore the long, informative e-mail I sent you and focus in on a stupid question from two weeks ago. You've got a PhD, Grissom, you ought to be able to draw some conclusions from the information I *did* give you._

_I'm still job-hunting, I'm wary of the NYC crime labs, and I haven't committed myself anywhere yet. What does that tell you? It tells me that I still don't know whether I'm coming back to Las Vegas and that I'm planning on making my own decision. As in, MY decision. As in, not going to be affected by pithy words from anyone who just wants to restore the status quo. No plants this time, Grissom, because it won't work._

_I know you meant well when you asked if there was anything you could do to make me come back, but it was a dumb question. I don't want this to sound as vicious as I know it's going to, but do you really think I would rely on any promise you make me about the atmosphere in the Vegas lab? I've learned my lesson about that, Gris, and you ought to know it. You were pretty much the sole cause of my disillusionment. _

_I'm not directing that at you as an attack; I know you're just who you are. This is just the only way I can think of to explain this to you clearly and succinctly. Plants are cute, but they don't solve problems or repair broken bonds, which is what has happened to us. I'm not being fatalistic, mind you - don't go thinking you, like, ruined my life or anything (how very melodramatic!) - but understand that I mean what I say. I can no longer trust you to keep any promise that includes both you and me, as much as I'd like to._

_Well . . . that's all I can think of to say on that subject. I hope you get it._

_                                                            Sara_

_P.S. Don't you dare get angry at Nick and Greg, Grissom; you didn't really expect that you could act weird and not have the night shift discussing it among themselves, did you? Behave yourself or you might find the lab two CSIs and a tech short one day soon, instead of just one CSI._

_*******************************************************************_

_From: Gil Grissom grissomg@nevadaonline.com _

_Date: Tuesday, July 29th, 2003 8:03 P.M._

_To: Sara ssidle@hotmail.com _

_Subject: Re: Re: Thanks_

_            Well, Sara, I'll admit I'm surprised. I had no idea that you were disgusted at our relationship. I don't know what I've done to make you lose your trust in me, but I hope you'll accept my apology for whatever it was. I consider myself an honorable man, and any promise I might make you, either today or in the future, is spoken honestly and intended to be kept. Granted, there are some circumstances I can't control that may void a given promise, but I won't, and never have, willingly break a promise to you or any of my CSIs._

_                                                Grissom_

_*******************************************************************_

_From: Sara Sidle ssidle@hotmail.com_

_Date: Wednesday, July 30th, 2003 12:45 P.M._

_To: Grissom grissomg@nevadaonline.com_

_Subject: This is ridiculous_

_            Please tell me that that e-mail wasn't supposed to make me feel BETTER? 'Cause if it was, it was a pathetic attempt and you're better at doubletalk than I thought._

_                                                                        Sara_

_P.S. You didn't answer me about Greg and Nick. You better not have gotten them in trouble, I'm warning you._

_P.P.S. I didn't say I was "disgusted," and more to the point, I didn't think we HAD a "relationship."_

_P.P.P.S. Well, I'm glad that you're willing to deign to treat me like "any of your CSIs," Grissom, that just makes me feel a whole lot better._

_*******************************************************************_

_From: Gil Grissom grissomg@nevadaonline.com _

_Date: Wednesday, July 30th, 2003 5:22 P.M._

_To: Sara ssidle@hotmail.com _

_Subject: I agree, this IS ridiculous_

_            Sara,_

_            Ok, one of us needs to calm down and attempt to make peace, and I've elected myself. I didn't intend my previous e-mail to sound like "doubletalk," as you put it. I was explaining the value of my promise as best I could and trying to not make it absolute and back myself into a corner should circumstances arise that I couldn't control. But I suppose it did sound a little slimy; I hope you'll believe me when I say I wasn't trying to qualify the value of my promises._

_            I'll admit that your "retort" angered me and that I answered you in a similar fashion. I apologize for that, and I've done my best to bring my pulse down to normal, so I'll try to answer your previous e-mail again now. _

_            The reason I mentioned my question from a while ago was that I was hoping against hope that there was something I could do for you. What I wrote in my P.S. to that initial e-mail, I meant: I don't want you to leave Las Vegas permanently, and so I was determined to get an answer from you._

_            Well, now I have my answer, and it's depressing to know that there *isn't* anything I can do, and even more depressing to know that I've somehow managed to kill your trust in me. Trust is imperative in a job like ours, and if the trust is gone between CSIs, the job becomes both more difficult and more dangerous. If for no other reason, then, I hope that there IS a way in which I can begin to regain your trust._

_            Before you jump down my throat, let me point out that this is a different question than I asked before. What I mean now is that, whether you do make your move permanent or not, it would pain me to know that I'd lost your trust permanently. If you could give me specifics on what I did, perhaps I could try to remedy things; alternatively, you could explain to me what I could do from my side to repair the trust we've lost. _

_            Either way, Sara, if and when we meet up again, I'm buying pizza and I'm going to sit there and watch while you eat it._

_                                                                                    Grissom_

_P.S. Before I forget and you call me on it again, no I did not punish Nick or Greg for their gossip, though I did make sure that they know now not to talk about my private dealings to anyone who isn't there to see it._

_P.P.S. I'm glad that you aren't thoroughly "disgusted" with me. When I said "relationship," I was referring to the interpersonal dealings of a type that you and I both have with many people in our lives, not trying to mock our problems._


	7. Between a rock and a hard place

"So as you can see," the young man said with a wave of his hand toward the machine in front of them, "we have pretty modern facilities here, along with a large technical staff to support our investigators." The canned spiel belied the skeptical look on his face as he showed her a mass spectrograph that must have been nearly 10 years old.

            Sara nodded agreeably, but her mind was refuting everything her tour guide had to say. _Modern facilities? That thing looks like it belongs in a high school lab!_

"Yes, very impressive," she said out loud, not wanting to alienate the nice man who had taken time out of his schedule to help her out. "So, what's your solve rate?" she asked gamely. _It couldn't possibly be as good as the solve rate back home. This is just some rinky-dink county lab in New Jersey, and although the people are friendly, they just aren't on the level Nick , Warrick, Grissom, and Catherine and I work on._

The young man, who had introduced himself as Walter Lopez, grinned. "It's been going up every year since our new director came on staff . . . hmm, that was 5 years ago. I've only been here since 2000," he added with a cutely sheepish look. "Our rate for last year was 88%."

Sara made appropriate noises of awe. Despite her growing disappointment in the lab's facilities, she really didn't think she'd ever met a nicer group of people, and she couldn't keep the smile from her face. _The team at home's nice too, Sara, if you don't shut them out_. She determinedly cut off the voice in her head. Las Vegas wasn't home anymore, she reminded herself, and she had to keep an open mind.

"So," Walter continued as he lead her back toward "his" lab, where they'd started their tour, "do you have any other questions? Want to look at anything else?" He leaned against the doorjamb, crossing one leg over the other, and raised his eyebrows encouragingly.

"Well," Sara replied pensively, "I don't want to sound too probing, but what's the lab's budget like? How much freedom do you guys have to acquire equipment or services that you need?"

The eyebrows went down slightly as Walter thought for a few moments. "Well, I don't know the actual numbers for the budget – I'm too far down the totem pole to be told stuff like that – but I do know that our purchasing power hasn't been curtailed lately. It's just that I'm the newest CSI on staff, and the old schoolers don't have a whole lot of desire to be on the cutting edge," he explained, glancing around at the out-of-date furniture and wallpaper.

"But you can get what you need?"

"Yeah!" he said, relieved that she wasn't ridiculing his lack of knowledge. "Yeah, we've got enough money for what we need. Bergen's one of the most prosperous counties in Jersey, you know."

Sara smiled. "No, actually I didn't know that, but it's a good bit of information to have. I'll file that away. So you think that if I were to take the position here, the administration would allow me a relatively large degree of freedom to get what I think the lab needs?"

Walter's face brightened considerably. "You know, I think if you agreed to be shift supervisor here, the entire lab would bow down before you. Our old supervisor – the one who's leaving – well, he's a nice guy, but very into tradition. I, and a couple of the other newer people, have been dying to get this whole place brought into the modern age."

Sara sighed. The Bergen County Crime Lab was the best she'd seen so far. The staff seemed honestly enthusiastic, and aware that they weren't being allowed to work up to their full potential, and along with the fact that Walter thought she'd be allowed a measure of free rein, it added up to a major plus in the lab's bid for her.

Bid for her, she thought wryly. Weird-sounding, but sort of true. Word had gotten around that a CSI III out of Las Vegas was job-hunting in the area, and this lab had actively pursued her.

A cough drew her attention back to reality, and she realized that she'd been staring blankly at her companion for close to five minutes. "Oh, sorry Walter. I was just thinking."

"No problem, uh . . . CSI Sidle. Thinking comes in handy in this business, huh?" he offered with a twinkle in his eye. 

"Right on," Sara smiled. "Well, thanks for the tour, and I'll e-mail you if I think of more questions." She palmed the business card he'd given her and slid it into her back pocket. Sticking out a hand to shake Walter's, she said a friendly goodbye and returned to her brother's car in the parking lot.

As the car door closed behind her, she sank into her seat with a troubled mind. She really liked this place – felt welcomed and accepted, even desired. She liked the area. She was even beginning to get used to the East Coast weather and enjoy the warm, but not too hot, summer they were having.

But then there was Vegas. Las Vegas had better labs and, arguably, better-educated staff. It housed nearly all of her friends. It housed Grissom. Was she really ready to take a drastic step and commit herself to high-level a job here?

Sara hating feeling paralyzed, and that was exactly what she was feeling right now. Caught in limbo between the temptation of a good job and a new atmosphere, and the still-strong pull of her Las Vegas roots, she was finding it easier to just keep touring labs than to make a decision. She _hated_ being wishy-washy like this! And, of course, in addition to this stress, she was still trying to think of a response to Grissom's question about regaining her trust.

What to do? The mental battle was giving her a headache, and she hoisted the aspirin she dug out of her purse in a symbolic toast to Grissom before swallowing it and starting the car to drive back to Jeff's house.

Her headache was beginning to recede by the time she got onto the Garden State Parkway, which only made room for more thoughts to crowd themselves into her already-full head. "Fuckin' asshole," she mumbled as she was cut off by a Hummer that must have been doing 100 down the highway, then smiled. She was even starting to talk like  New Jerseyan. 

When she threw herself down on her bed fifteen minutes later, she was no closer to a decision, or even a strong opinion. She had been perfectly ok and comfortable with her decision to leave Las Vegas, until suddenly Grissom turned into Mr. Nice Guy, asking her to come back, what could he do for her . . . to be honest, it weirded her out more than it encouraged her.

A thought hit her and she rolled over to stare at the ceiling. Why bother wondering? She was here, thousands of miles away from Las Vegas; why not just . . . ask Grissom? He was expecting an e-mail from her, anyway, so why not just stick it in tonight's mail. Maybe associate it with the whole "trust" issue, and see what he said.

Yeeeeahhh . . . that was how she was going to do it. Grinning, Sara reached over her shoulder and patted herself on the back. "Smart, Sidle!"

_From: Sara Sidle ssidle@hotmail.com_

_Date: Friday, August 1st, 2003 5:25 P.M._

_To: Grissom grissomg@nevadaonline.com_

_Subject: Ya gotta have trust_

_            Gris,_

_            Well, I've been thinking about your question, but I don't have an answer for you yet. I'll explain about that in a second, but first let me tell you about how things are going with me._

_            I've been offered a supervisory position for the Bergen County labs. The facilities are antiquated, but if I accept the offer I'll be given free rein to buy and teach what I think is needed. The people there are wonderful, so friendly. I got a tour from a nice guy named Walter, and I could tell that he knew it wasn't up to my Las Vegas standards. He kept apologizing in different ways, which was half-cute and half-annoying. He's real young, maybe three or four years younger than I am, and that's pretty much representative of the people working there; most of them are young and eager for some new leadership, and willing enough to accept someone from far away. But do I want to commit to them?_

_            So that's the current issue running laps inside my head, and I've been struggling with whether or not to accept the offer all day. Gave me a huge headache, I'll tell you. I was starting to feel like I was you, with my head all wanting to break in half. It got a little better around the time I got home, though, and it suddenly occurred to me that part of the reason I was reluctant to make a decision is that things aren't cleared up between you and me._

_            Don't worry, I don't mean we need to resolve all our issues and live happily ever after. I just mean that I don't understand your motivations lately, and until I know what's making you want me to come back and trust you so badly, when just weeks ago I would have sworn you'd dance on my grave if you got the opportunity, I can't allow myself to make such a heavy decision._

_            So, Grissom . . . why are you suddenly being so nice? Ever since the night you showed up at my door with pizza, you've been trying to be my best friend. Not that I'm averse to the idea, you know – it's just a little too abrupt a turn-around for me to fully believe it. _

_            And before you do it, don't even TRY "the lab needs you" or "I'm worried about you." You used both those already and you turned out to be lying . . . or slightly delusional . . . or something. Overdone, Grissom – if you're gonna go for a cliché, try one you haven't sampled before. Better yet, how about actually telling the truth? Something with more detail than four or five words provide?_

_            Scary stuff, I know. "Feelings? What are those?" you say. Well, give 'em a try. Every now and then they can come in handy, or even be pleasant._

_                                                                                                Sara_

            As she clicked "Send," she hoped that he would know that she had written the last part tongue-in-cheek. Or mostly tongue-in-cheek, at least. Ok, partly tongue-in-cheek. Well . . . there had been a _little bit_ of tongue-in-cheekness in there. Sort of.

            She had to smile at herself. If there was one thing Sara Sidle was good at, it was talking in earnest to Grissom, but making it sound like it was a joke. Maybe that was part of the problem . . . but no, when she'd dropped all pretense after the explosion, he'd been just as, uh, problematic as at any other time. 

            With a heavy sigh, she slouched in her chair and resumed staring at the ceiling. There were some interesting patterns up there if you looked for them. The whole stucco theme

            _(What do you think he's gonna say, Sara?)_

was pretty cool, actually. So far she'd seen an elephant, a piece of driftwood, and 

            _(You think he's actually gonna tell you the truth? Gonna just go, "Well, Sara, I kinda like you, now would you come home and marry me?"?)_

Greg's face. The last one had been a little disconcerting, but then, it had been late at night. Maybe her brain hadn't been firing on all cylinders. Anyway, it was getting kinda late, 

            _(Since when is 8:30 "late," Sara? You're just trying to change the subject)_

so she probably should get to bed and try to do some more reading before she dropped off. She'd

            _(He's not gonna say anything worth reading, you know, just the same old bullshit. Why are you bothering to get excited? Give it up now.)_

been falling behind on her reading ever since she started being productive here and actually leaving the house. The newest issue of . . .

            _(Oh, just give it up. You know he won't ever give a shit about you; why don't you just stop torturing yourself and take the damn job. Show him you have a life that doesn't include him.)_

"Shut UP!" she screeched at the voice in her head. Lowering the volume, she sternly told the pessimistic voice that the it was wrong; she had to just wait and see what happened with Grissom and with the job offer. 

            "Sara?" Jeff's voice floated up the stairs from the landing near his bedroom. "Everything ok up there?"

            "Fine, J!" she called back. "Everything's fine."


	8. Mr Who?

Sara was beginning to get sick of New York. Well no, not the City itself, exactly; it was just that she never went there with an actual purpose, and you can only wander the streets so much before you've memorized the neighborhood – which she had.

            She needed to make a decision. She needed to get herself a life, before she went completely out of her mind. But to do that, she need an answer from Grissom.

            With that in mind, she nearly ran for her laptop when she got home from the City. Booted up, clicked frantically on Mozilla, and waited with a foot tapping for it to connect. "Hurry _up_!"

            Finally, success. The program was connected and she watched a list of new messages appear in her inbox, one by one. Spam: _12 CDs for the price of 1_. Spam: _Advance Pecuniary Objectivity Nowadays _(what in god's name was _that_?). Listserv: an ongoing flame war. Spam: _"Get' "peoples' "dirt"_ (did these people not know grammar, in addition to being evil minions of satan?).

            Ooh, one from Nick: _Hey, Sara!_ More spam: _Never Repay Free Loans_. Greg: _Saraaaaa_! Spam: _Increase Ur P3nis Size _("gee, thanks, just what I need"). Junkmail from Classmates.com. Warrick: _My opinion_ (his opinion on what?). Catherine: _(no subject)_.

            Grissom: _Re: Ya gotta have trust_. No, she told herself, don't skip to it. Don't do it; Grissom's just a friend like Nick or Warrick. Don't put him to the head of the line.

            Riiiight.

            She opened Nick's.

_From: Nicholas Stokes StokeDaTexan@hotmail.com_

_Date: Saturday, August 2nd, 2003 8:52 P.M._

_To: Sara ssidle@hotmail.com_

_Subject: Hey Sara!_

_            Sara,_

            So . . . I hear that you've got news. Grissom just told us about your job offer (I don't know if he was supposed to tell us or not, but he did), so I wanted to e-mail you and tell you that I think it's a good idea.

_            Not that I want to get rid of you! You know how much I love you (but I won't let Grissom hear me say that!), but I want what's best for you, and from the sound of it, New Jersey is where the better job is._

_            Ok, so this is what I got from Grissom's spiel. A county lab in Jersey offered you a job as supervisor, and if you take it, you'll have _carte blanche_. He also mentioned (and he sounded a little depressed about this part – wonder why!) that the staff is mostly young and that there's some guy named Walter you seem to like. Now, I'm not gonna ask details about that part (!), but if everything Gris said is true . . . Sara, I say go for it. You can't wait around here forever for Grissom to get his head out of his ass, and I know you don't want to try. It's a better position, probably for more money, with a staff that'll probably worship you; what's not to like?_

_            Do it, I'm telling you . . . but you BETTER keep me updated and you BETTER come visit us often. So, uh . . . let me know, ok honey?_

_                                                            Nick_

            Hmm, she thought. One vote for "take the job"; she wondered what the others would have to say. Nick was right about the benefits of the position; she sincerely doubted that she was going to get a better offer given the lack of years she had under her belt.

            And the money _did_ sound pretty good. Well . . . why not see what Greg had to say before debating it anymore.

From: GregS  sexy_tech@yahoo.com 

_Date: Saturday, August 2nd, 2003 8:58 P.M._

_To: Sara ssidle@hotmail.com_

Subject: Saraaaaa! 

            _Sara!!!! Tell me this is a joke! Grissom just told us all that you got a job up there and you're not coming back?! You cannot DO this, Sara! No way, no how. I'm gonna fly out there and handcuff you to me and I am going to THROW AWAY THE KEY!_

_            Ok well maybe I'm being a little dramatic . . . but I don't think so. Pleeeeeease tell me Grissom was making it up, Sara. How can you want to leave Vegas? You have a kickass job here, and you have all of us! You make plenty of money, and you like it here, you told me so! WHY would you want to leave?_

_            Oh, enough. I need to go cry into my fume hood. I expect an e-mail tomorrow telling me it was all a mistake!_

_                                                                        Greg_

            That counted as a "don't take the job," she figured. A very enthusiastic one, too. Well, she hadn't really expected much else from Greg. After all, he still had a heavy crush on her.

            But . . . he was right about some things. Her job in Las Vegas really was amazing; she'd be hard-pressed to think of any other crime lab where'd she see as much action and as much variety as she had there.

            But again . . . she couldn't stay just an underling forever. Granted, a respected underling, but she was an underling all the same, and Sara knew she was good enough to be a leader, not a follower. She had knowledge to give to younger CSIs – wasn't she obligated to do so? Grissom had taken the time to teach her, and, along with any other emotion she may have had for him, gratitude was right up there.

            But she didn't know everything, either. There was more to learn, and would she be able to learn it if she took a supervisory role?

            Oh, screw it. Warrick was levelheaded, she'd see what he thought.

From: Brown, Warrick  Brownw@lasvegas.cl.com 

_Date: Saturday, August 2nd, 2003 11:09 P.M._

_To: Sara ssidle@hotmail.com_

_Subject: My Opinion_

_            Hey there, you. Just heard the news from Grissom – is it true that you're taking a job in New Jersey? Wow, Sara, I can't believe this. I don't know about anyone else here, but I didn't see it coming._

_            Don't get mad at me for asking this, ok, but . . . is this because of Grissom? Are you trying to get away from him? I'm not judging you,  don't worry. I just think that if this is because of him, you might want to take some more time to think about all this._

            Don't run away from what you have here at home just because of one man being cruel. YOU should be the one to determine if you stay or if you go, based on YOUR goals. And wanting to escape from Grissom shouldn't be a goal.

_            Ok, I know you're probably going, "What the hell does Warrick know about me, anyway?" right now, and I guess you're right. None of us know you any more than you let us, and that's nowhere near how well Grissom knows you. But he doesn't count in this conversation, and I like to think that I'm the most logical out of me, Nick, and Greg._

            So . . . this is your decision, when it comes down to it. My advice, if you'd like to take it, though, is to think hard about it. And if you have thought hard about it, and you still want to take the job, then more power to you. We just want you to be happy, remember that.

_            Keep in touch, ok? I want to know everything's ok._

_                                                                        Warrick_

            Yeah, if Grissom was Mr. Nice Guy and Greg was Mr. Hyper, Warrick was Mr. Sensible. He provided stability for their group and balanced out Nick's excitability, and Sara was glad for it. Talking to Warrick was always a reality check, and this time was no different.

            He'd slipped past the issue of her leaving and zeroed in on the reason behind it all. And he was right, to some extent; she had come here to get away from Grissom. What was strange now, though, was that she wasn't _staying_ because of Grissom. She was staying here because . . . well, because she kind of liked it. And she really thought that she could help in this lab.

            A beep brought her attention back to the monitor in front of her, where another junk e-mail had appeared at the bottom of her inbox, under Catherine's and Grissom's e-mails. Sigh . . . these were the two she dreaded. Catherine always had a strong opinion and wasn't afraid to beat it into Sara. And Grissom . . . well, he was entirely too Grissom-like for her tastes.

            Might as well bite the bullet; on to Catherine.

From: Catherine Willows  Catscratch@aol.com 

_Date: Sunday, August 3rd, 2003 1:34 A.M._

_To: Sara ssidle@hotmail.com_

_Subject: (no subject)_

_            Sara,_

_            What's this I hear about you staying in Jersey? Is Grissom smoking something, or is it true? Because let me tell you, if it's true . . . well, if you're doing this to get his attention, you've got it. He's in one of those moods where he refuses to express how angry/upset/confused he is, but if you know him you can tell just by looking at him. Poor guy's majorly messed up. _

_ Knowing you, though, you're probably very serious about this moving thing. Or not moving thing, I guess would be the better term, since you're there and not here._

_Listen, I'm not going to try to convince you to stay or go. I know it's not worth it; you've got your own opinions and reasons, and you're sure as hell not going to listen to me if I supply mine. Instead, I'm just going to tell you what's going on here since the news broke. We're pretty close to complete mental (if not operational) chaos, I tell you._

_Things were ok when you were "on vacation" because, you know, Sara was going to be coming back. But now that word is out about you being gone for good, things are coming out of the woodwork. Greg seems to be campaigning amongst the techs for . . . something. Maybe he wants them to fly out there and kidnap you back – I wouldn't put it past him.  But you know, I think you'd be kinda pleased at how many of them are really upset about this. Turns out you're a favorite among the young crowd, and the not-so-young crowd too. Bobby and Archie are both hot under the collar; don't be surprised if they somehow get in touch with you._

_And of course, Nick and Warrick are, hmm, shell-shocked – that's not quite the right word, but you know what I mean. Nick's been wandering around in a daze all night; I think he's really working that brain of his on what he thinks of it. He wants you to be happy, I know that, but I don't know if he thinks you *can* be happy anywhere but here._

_And Warrick's being Warrick, of course. Didn't really say much of anything when Grissom told us (as opposed to Nick and Greg, who both started shouting questions), and hasn't said much of anything since. I know he's thinking also, but I think he's got different ideas than Nick and Greg. He's got a lot of insight, you know, even into people he doesn't know really well - namely, you. I just cornered him about fifteen minutes ago and asked him what he thought, and he said he thought that "whatever he thought didn't make much of a difference." Which I guess is Warrick-speak for "Sara will make her own decision; the best we can do is tell her what we think and then sit back."_

_He's right, of course. I have a feeling that me, or Warrick, or Nick telling you one way or the other would be like talking to a wall. But I think that maybe Grissom's different. Well, I know he's "different," but I think that if there were to be anyone who *could* work through the decision with you, it'd be him. Of course, that's not going to happen right now, because you're making the decision because of him to begin with – at least partly._

_He knows that too. Ok so I want to say up front – none of this came from him. He hasn't talked to me about it, and everything I'm about to say is just my opinions and what I think I see. I don't know whether you actually told him or not, but he knows that you're gone because of him. He's . . . slowing down. I think it's kinda that now you're gone, or going to be gone, suddenly he has nothing to fight against, and he doesn't know what to do. I have this mental image of you two where you're a brick wall and for the past three years he's been pushing all his weight against it . . . and now that the wall's gone, he's overbalancing and about to fall on his face._

_That's a little extreme, but do you know what I mean? He'll probably recover his balance, but right now I don't think he's even realized that he's off balance. I'm not saying this to guilt you, Sara, believe me. I'm just trying to describe him to you, because I know that even if you guys are talking, he's not going to tell you this part._

_Ooookay, I have the feeling that I'm just digging myself deeper now by telling you all this, so I'll stop. You let me know if you want me to go on, or whether you've heard enough._

_I want to hear from you again as soon as you've made your final decision. Keep me in the loop, please – believe it or not, I worry about you kids!_

_                                                            Cat_

Sara sat back in her chair and sighed. The way Catherine had described Grissom was too accurate – she could almost see herself and Grissom in the "brick wall" image Catherine had described.

She looked at her watch. 11:48 P.M. Time to go to bed and try to sleep, or she wouldn't pass out until 3 A.M., and that would be bad. She'd need all her mental power to deal with Grissom's e-mail tomorrow morning.


	9. The truth is out there

Sara couldn't sleep. She didn't know why she was surprised – had she really thought that she could sleep peacefully with an unread e-mail from Grissom in her inbox? The hours from midnight to 4 A.M. were spent tossing and turning. She'd lie on her side for fifteen minutes, eyes squeezed shut, and try to clear her brain. Then she'd realize that repeating, "My mind is empty," counts as a thought and turn over with a groan to attempt the same thing on her other side.

"Damn it, I need to _sleep_! I am not getting out of bed at three A.M. just to read an e-mail from Grissom. It'll still be there in the morning and I will read it _then_."

Around three-thirty she resorted to knocking herself in the side of the head with a fist and burying her face in the pillow in the hopes that it was the light _(what light, there's no light coming through the window, Sara)_ that was keeping her awake.

No dice. At 3:45, she started muttering obscenities into the dark room, impugning the god of sleep, the annoying pipe that was whispering in the wall, and finally Grissoms's antecedents, legitimacy, and family-related sexual habits.

At 3:56, she ran out of curses and started worrying her lip.

At 3:59, she sat up and said, "Fuck it," then climbed out of bed and stumbled to the desk, stubbing her toe on the corner of the bed in the process. She plopped down onto the desk chair, flipped on a small lamp, and examined her wounded digit for any protruding bone splinters or severed arteries (not that there _was_ an artery in this toe, but it never hurt to check). Neither was present, though the toe was beginning to turn an angry red color, so she returned the foot to the floor and brought her laptop out of hibernation.

Grissom's e-mail sat at the top of the queue in her inbox, and she re-read the subject line with a sigh. It was simply a repeat of the subject her e-mail had borne, and gave away nothing about the content she was about to read. The timestamp carried a little more information. It had been sent around 9 A.M. on Sunday, so Grissom probably hadn't written her from the lab, or if he had it had been when the rest of the team had already gone home. So maybe he didn't want anyone to read over his shoulder when he explained things to her, or maybe that had just been the first block of time he had free to write her. She'd never know unless she opened the mail.

She turned the lamp off again and double-clicked Grissom's e-mail.

_From: Gil Grissom grissomg@nevadaonline.com _

_Date: Sunday, August 3rd, 2003 9:15 A.M._

_To: Sara ssidle@hotmail.com _

_Subject: Re: Ya gotta have trust_

_Sara,_

_Congratulations on the job offer. It sounds like a wonderful opportunity for you. I always knew that you could do better than what Las Vegas allowed you; you're too intelligent and young to stay in an isolated city working a shift that doesn't allow you a social life, and I'm glad that you've been given the opportunity to take that step up._

_Uh, I guess that paragraph sounded a little too formal considering what I was trying to say, which was this: you're very lucky (in a make-your-own-luck kind of way) to have been offered such a challenging and potentially rewarding job, and I'm proud to say that I think the student has surpassed the master._

_I think you should take the job, Sara, if my opinion carries any weight with you. We both know you're better-suited as a leader than a follower, and I have absolute confidence in your ability to turn that lab around and give me some stiff competition for the #2 spot in the country._

_It's great to hear that you'll be working with an energetic crowd, too. I know that you've felt like you were being held back by my stodginess in Las Vegas, and it sounds like you'll whip that lab into shape within days, considering your boundless energy._

_As for this guy Walter who you said was cute, well, I suggest that you not get yourself in too deep with him or any of your other staff. Young men can be, and usually are, very flighty, and you'd be very likely to be hurt if you got involved with such a man. I'm sure he's very nice, but I suggest that you keep your distance._

_Well, now that I've got that out of my system, I'll respond to the rest of your e-mail. I'm not sure I understand why you can't make a decision without having resolved any issues concerning me; they don't seem to me to be related. Do you need a recommendation from me and think I won't give you one?_

_No, I doubt that that's the reason; you've always known how I feel about the quality of your work. Well, I suppose I think, and please correct me if I am interpreting this wrong, that the reason you want to resolve things with me is that you won't know whether to choose Vegas or New Jersey until you know if I will . . . disrespect you if you come back here._

_If that's the reason, I think I can tell you a reasonable degree of certainty that, should you come back here, you won't find me nearly so standoffish. The entire team misses you, and I assure you that we would welcome you back with open arms if you return._

_I hope you don't mind that I told them about the offer. It seemed like a good idea at the time, so that I could give the truth directly rather than waiting for strange rumors to start circulating. So I got everyone together before shift last night and told them what you told me. The news got a lot of different reactions, too. Nick and Greg both had their jaws drop almost to the floor before they started firing questions at me, whereas Catherine didn't say anything, just gave me one of those piercing looks of hers. Then, later on, she cornered me in my office and started demanding more details. She didn't seem appeased when I told her that I didn't know any more details than what I had already given the team._

_Warrick is the only one who hasn't said something about it to me (at least as of now). He either doesn't care too much either way, which I doubt, or he's worried about the situation and trying to decide what he thinks and what he can do. I suspect the second option. _

_Brass didn't say much of anything either. He caught me in my office an hour or so after Catherine did, but instead of asking for details he just looked at me and asked what I did to you. I answered in complete honesty that I wasn't sure what I had done, or if I had done anything. I still don't, but I'd like to if you'd like to share anything that's going through your mind._

_I know, I know – you don't trust me. Or at least, you're not sure if you can trust me, and I guess that's only fair given the way I've acted toward you the past few years. But I've already asked you about that and I respect your wish to not tell me details, so I'll just skip ahead and try to answer your question, though I don't really know if I can give you a satisfactory response._

_Why am I being so nice to you lately, you ask. Well, I guess that the truth has a few parts to it. First, ever since that night you, uh, asked about dinner I've been realizing how abruptly I behave toward you. Believe it or not, I do occasionally pick up on the emotions of people around me, and I'm aware that the way I answered your question was as hurtful as the answer itself. And I do apologize for that, and all the similar occasions that have happened over the years. _

_I guess that once I decided to try to undo the damage, I may have carried it too far, judging by your reaction to my pizza delivery. I wasn't trying to mock you, you know. I was just hoping I could lighten the situation enough to enable us to start actually talking again.  Guess it backfired on me, huh?_

_The second reason is something I'm rather sensitive about, and thus hesitant to discuss with you or anyone else, but I think that this is the best time to "come clean," so to speak. I've been having some medical problems during the past year. Before you start to worry, I assure you that the problems weren't life threatening, or even too serious – they were more of a nuisance than anything else. But they were enough to distract me from my work and my friends, and enough to make me pull back into my shell and avoid people who knew how to break through that shell – you among them._

_Now, though, I've finally gotten the medical treatment I needed to correct my problems, and poked my head back out of my shell, only to see that my life is close to becoming a shambles around me. The pertinent area of that shambles in this case is you. I've been so worried about myself that I haven't taken the time to hold up my end of our friendship. I know that you still seek my approval at times, and that sometimes you'd like to hear a comforting word from me, and I know that in my focus on myself, I haven't paid much attention to what others need from me. Now that I've pulled my head out the sand, well . . . all I can do is apologize, and I seem to be getting very good at it._

_My third reason is something like a combination of the first two, and because I'm so sensitive to it, I'm hesitant to even put it on paper (or e-mail, in this case), so please forgive me if I speak vaguely or in euphemism as I describe this to you._

_Sooo . . . how to speak about this. I guess I'll rip off the bandage quickly and start with spitting out something I've been avoiding for as long as I can remember: I have feelings about you that are very un-mentor-like. I suppose you've figured that out for yourself by now, considering your behavior toward me, but I just needed say that "out loud" for the first time. As with everything else, I pushed those feelings aside as I struggled with my medical problems, but once those problems were resolved and I started taking stock of my life, I realized that in the act of pushing the feelings aside, I'd pushed you aside. Pushing you away has never been something I would want to do, and when I realized that it was exactly what I was doing, I set out to make things up to you. My attempt seems to have been a fantastic failure, and I'm worried now that I've only pushed you farther away – all the way to the East Coast._

_Ok. I can't really say more than that right now; I admit to being a little shaky right now as I read over what I've written. But I just want to repeat this: I think you should take the better job where you are now. I wish fervently that you could come back to Las Vegas and be happy, but I suspect that that's impossible, at least at this point._

_Perhaps it would be easier to begin to mend things from a distance. I don't really know if that will work, but I want to mend this rift and I'm willing to do whatever you wish right now. Please let me know how you want to handle this, if you're willing to give me another chance and handle it at all._

_                                                                        Grissom_

Sara read the e-mail three times, eyes opening wider each time. A tear pricked at her left eye and she ruthlessly sniffed it back. Shaking her head to try to clear it, she turned away from the computer, not bothering to close the programs or the laptop itself, and crawled into bed. She couldn't deal with this right now. She needed to go to sleep and then try again in the morning.

Sleep came quickly this time.


	10. Down to the wire

The next day found Sara sprawled on the break room couch in the Bergen County lab, staring at a printout of Grissom's e-mail. She'd been in this position for almost an hour and was no closer to really understanding what it was that Grissom had said. He thought she should take the job; he was sorry that he had been so rude to her; he had a mysterious "medical problem." All of these things she could interpret, but the last three paragraphs had thrown her for a loop. 

He had feelings for her . . . but he still wanted her to take the job here? Either the man was insane or he was trying to manipulate her and she'd be damned if she could figure out which it was.

She was shaken out of her frustrated thoughts when a quiet voice coming from the doorway asked, "Sara?"

Looking up, she saw that it was Sophie Harrison, the most junior of the CSIs she might soon be supervising. Sophie was twenty-two and fresh out of college, but like the rest of the lab, she was nearly bouncing off the walls with excitement at the prospect of improving the lab. "Hi Sophie, I didn't see you there. Do you need something?"

"Well, not really. I just wanted to . . . uh, can I talk to you? I have a couple of questions."

It was probably good that she was being interrupted from the e-mail, Sara thought. It wasn't like she was getting anything accomplished by just staring at it. She folded the papers in her hand and tucked them into her bag, then smiled. "Sure, take a seat. What's on your mind?"

Sophie nervously pushed her hair out of her eyes. "I guess I'm just curious. Because, you know, Walt's the only one of us who really knows you so far. So I was just hoping I could pick your brain a little."

Sara furrowed her brows. Walter didn't _know_ her. Then again, Sophie was right in that he knew her better than anyone else in the building at the moment. She just hoped this questioning wouldn't get too personal. "Um, okay. Pick my brain about what?"

"About your experience and things. You know, your CSI experience." She offered a small smile. "I kinda got elected to talk to you about it. The other guys didn't have the balls."

"Doesn't surprise me," Sara said with a grin. "Guys usually don't. So you all want to know my history? I'm going to need questions that are more specific than that, though – I'm no good at talking about myself."

Sophie consulted a list that seemed to have magically appeared in her hand. "Ok, well . . . where'd you go to school? And what's your degree and/or specialty?"

She hated this question. When people found out that she'd gone to an ivy league, they always seemed to look at her differently – either like she was a snob or like they weren't worthy to walk on the same dirt she did. Her newest strategy was to avoid identifying Harvard at all. "I went to college not too far from New Jersey. Further north, though – up in New England. I majored in physics, but I don't get much chance to use that anymore. I guess you could say my 'specialty' lately is materials analysis. Trace and stuff."

Sophie was nodding and taking notes like she was in a lecture hall and not a break room. Sara sighed. "Uh, Sophie. There isn't going to be a test on this later, I promise."

"Oh, I know. But I've got to report back to everyone with this stuff, so it's easier to write it down than try to remember it."

Wonderful. The answers she gave during this "twenty questions" interview were going to be publicized around the place. "Well you can tell them that they didn't have to send someone to interrogate me; they would have found out stuff like as they worked with me." The other woman looked crestfallen, though, and Sara relented. "Ok, you can keep going. Now that it's on the record that I'm not keen on being quizzed like this, next question?"

"What level CSI are you and how many years of experience do you have? And if you know your solve rate, they want that too."

This wasn't going to work, she realized. She was completely incapable of not being pissed that five men had sent this little girl to get a complete personal history of their potential new boss. "Enough. Sorry, Sophie, but I'm not doing this. I'll tell you what: if they ask you, you tell them that if I take this job, I'll let them ask their own questions during the first week. After that, they'll know all they need to know, and I won't be answering any more questions like these."

"I figured," Sophie said with not a hint of disappointment in her voice. "I didn't want to do this, seriously, but I kind of got steamrolled into it. You're not mad, are you?"

"Not right now. But if they keep pushing you around I will be. You do realize that just because they have seniority doesn't mean that they can order you around, right?"

Sophie grimaced, then shook her head. "Yeah, I know. But I didn't want to get on their bad sides." She stood up and smiled again. "I'll leave you alone now. Sorry again."

"Not a problem. Talk to you later," Sara called after the CSIs retreating back. Then, to herself, "Sheesh. Poor kid."

Had she ever been like that? So eager to please her coworkers, so earnest? She must have been, at some point; god knew she was still eager to please people she looked up to. Like him. But even that was beginning to fade out of her personality ever since he'd started jerking her around.

Sara felt a burning urge to take these people under her wing. To show them how to do things right, and to make sure that, unlike her, they ended up with both lives _and_ jobs. So . . . did that mean she wanted this job? Had she made her decision?

No! Too soon. No rush. All the time in the world. And that time was going to be used in another attempt to decode Gil Grissom and his stranger-than-fiction e-mail, she decided as she retrieved the papers she'd stowed when Sophie came into the room.

_But I just want to repeat this: I think you should take the better job where you are now. I wish fervently that you could come back to Las Vegas and be happy, but I suspect that that's impossible, at least at this point. _

What the hell did he mean by that? He wanted her to take the job because he didn't think she could be happy in Las Vegas? Because he was there? Because once she got back he'd morph right back into Asshole!Grissom? She would _never_ understand this man, and it was beginning to get pretty damn frustrating. Why couldn't he just spit everything out without the fancy words and complex sentences and the euphemisms?

Then again, this e-mail had been unbelievably honest compared to his other communications. So was the truth really that he wanted her to stay in New Jersey?

After a few seconds, another thought came to her: did it matter? Did she really, honestly want to make her decision based on what Grissom thought she should do? She'd resolved when she'd come out here that the decision was going to be hers and no one else's for a very good reason, and she couldn't allow herself to buckle now. Grissom's opinion was helpful, perhaps, but it would not be the deciding factor. For that matter, neither would Greg's, Nick's, Warrick's, or Catherine's. 

Making a decision alone was more difficult than she'd ever imagined. She spent much of the evening pacing the house, occasionally opening the refrigerator or a cabinet, surveying the contents, then closing it, unsatisfied. Jeff tried to waylay her a few times, but she fobbed him off with a weak excuse about pondering how she was going to upgrade her laptop.

When she got tired of pacing, she would sit on the nearest soft object and stare at the wall, trying to categorize the pros and cons of each of her choices. Eventually, she'd lose track of the mental lists and jump up to start pacing again. This went on for nearly five hours, lasting until she finally gave up and grabbed a shot glass and a bottle of Jack Daniels and settled down in her room to drink the worries away.

What ended up happening, though, was very different from what her goal was when she took that first shot. After three drinks, her mind began to clear rather than become more muddled than it already was. Later, she decided that the alcohol had slowed her frantic thoughts down to a pace at which she could actually consider them, but right then all she knew was that she needed to e-mail the team.

At 10:22 P.M., she sat down and wrote this:

_From: Sara ssidle@hotmail.com_

_Date: Tuesday, August 5th, 2003 10:42 P.M._

_To: Catscratch@aol.com, Brownw@lasvegas.cl.com, sexy_tech@yahoo.com, StokeDaTexan@hotmail.com _

_CC: grissomg@nevadaonline.com _

_Subject: My Plans_

_            Hi all,_

_            Well, I guess you know why I'm e-mailing you all like this. I've made a decision about whether to go or stay, and I wanted to let you all know at the same time. If you guys want to ask me more about everything after you read this, that's fine, just send it to me and take out the addresses up top._

_            So . . . I've been doing some major thinking, as I bet you could've guessed. I know Grissom told you all about the job offer I got, and that I might not be coming back to Las Vegas, and I know from the e-mails you guys sent me that you all have a different opinion on the topic.  So before I tell you what my decision actually is, I just want to tell you all that I read everything you had to say and thought about it, but that ultimately the decision was mine. I'm not staying here because of what anyone said or didn't say, and I-_

_             . . .Oops. Guess I just gave away the decision. Yeah, I'm going to stay here in New Jersey - for the time being. Now before everyone starts screaming (in voice or in text), let me give you the details. Like Grissom told you guys, I was offered a supervisory position with the Bergen County crime lab in Hackensack, New Jersey. The pay is slightly higher, not that that matters, and the big thing is that I'm being given pretty much free rein to do things as I see fit throughout the lab. I've decided to take the job on a semi-permanent basis – that is, I'm under contract for six months, at the end of which both the lab director and I will evaluate how things are going and make our final decisions._

_            Does that make sense? I'm staying here, but I'm not ready to say that I'll never come back to CSI in Vegas. Grissom, I don't expect you to keep the job open or anything like that – go ahead and find a good replacement for me. A GOOD one, mind you. I don't want to see your standing slip just because I'm gone! And guys, be nice to whoever it is. I have a girl here who was just hired a few months ago, and the older CSIs are bullying her like nobody's business. I want none of that on your end, kiddies, or I just might have to come up there and beat on you._

_Okay so that's pretty much the news of the day. I'm going to start apartment-hunting right now, too, since I can't live with my brother forever, so if anyone knows anyone who's got a good apartment for rent within half an hour of Hackensack . . . yeah, didn't think so. And for that matter . . . how the hell do I get my car from Nevada to New Jersey?_

_Well, I'll be keeping in touch and I might even visit, and I want you guys to keep me updated on how things are going on your end. So, uh . . . bye. _

_                                                            S_

            To her surprise, she felt immeasurably better after firing this e-mail off into cyberspace. She took another drink for good measure, steeling herself, then sat back to compose another e-mail, this one for Grissom's eyes only.

_From: Sara ssidle@hotmail.com_

_Date: Tuesday, August 5th, 2003 11:08 P.M._

_To: grissomg@nevadaonline.com_

_Subject: And now for the whole truth . . ._

_            Grissom,_

_            Hey . . . I guess I should warn you before I start that I'm kinda drunk. Jack Daniels and I spent the whole night trying to make The Decision, so go easy on me if I'm not exactly coherent._

_            Ok well, I guess you read my other e-mail by now – the one I sent to the whole group? – and you know that I decided to stay here in New Jersey for the time being. I hope you aren't stunned by this or anything, since that's what you told me to do in the first place. But really, it doesn't matter if you are or not. I decided that there were too many other people's opinions vying for my attention, so instead I shut all of you guys out and made my OWN decision. Remember I told you the first week that that was what I wanted to do?_

_            I can't really tell you exact reasons, and I guess you probably don't care much about them anyway, but I did want to talk to you (well, e-mail you) privately to talk about your last e-mail to me. Not that I have a damn clue what to say about it, but it feels like it needs to be talked about. So since I'm not feeling too deeply intelligent right now anyway, I'll just do this piece-by-piece._

_            First: You apologized for treating me so "abruptly." Well, I guess you're forgiven, though I still don't really understand how you just suddenly came to this conclusion after shooting me down for the umpteenth time. But probably I won't ever understand that, anyway, since you are who you are. But you know, you didn't have to tell me that you occasionally experience those spasms known as "emotions" - I've seen you at crime scenes involving children. _

_And when you tried to undo the damage . . . Grissom, hasn't anyone ever told you that women prefer *talking* over eating? Come on, did you really expect me to be like, "Oh look, it's Grissom with not a word of apology, come to my door to feed me, and making jokes about dates! How wonderful, why don't I let him in and forgive everything"? I mean, I know you were trying and everything, and I give you credit for that, but you have a LOT to learn about the female psyche._

_Okay, and now this mysterious "medical problem." I can understand your reluctance to tell people, and the fact that you started hiding because of it, but can I just ask: do you still not trust me? The rest of your e-mail was so honest, why wouldn't you just tell me what's wrong with you?_

_Not to sound completely bitchy or anything, you know, but Jesus Christ, do you think I won't care? Or are you reserving that information for the next time you screw up? Or is it that I just "don't need to be told"? Yeah, I can see you coming up with that one. "I'm sorry Miss Sidle, this medical information is being distributed on a need-to-know basis." That's bullshit._

_Ok ok wait. I'm sorry about that paragraph, I didn't mean to get mad at you. But it did burn me that you wouldn't talk about it, honestly. But that's not important right not, 'cause I have to talk about your third "reason," which I don't understand in the slightest._

_So you have "un-mentor-like feelings" for me. Which, in plan English, would mean you're attracted (god I hate that word. Does "have a crush" sound better, or "like"?) to me, I guess._

_I'm glad you brought it out into the open, seriously. I know how much guts it must have required for you – YOU, who hardly reacts when the whole world blows up around you – to actually share something that close to you. And that's cool. I appreciate it. But what does it mean? Because you say that, and then right away you go back into, "I think you should take the job, you can't be happy here," and all that stuff. So which is it? You want me back there, or you want me to stay here? Or do you just want me back mentally, as long as I'm far away from you?_

_See, that's where I'm stuck. I don't think you mean anything bad by putting the two statements together, but I'm fucked if I know what you DO mean by it. So maybe if you find yourself some more time for full disclosure, how about you try to explain to me what you meant?_

_Um. Okay, I'm getting cross-eyed. I think it's time to cut myself off from the booze and the writing. Oh, but one more thing. Could you do me a favor and make sure everyone at the lab knows that this isn't their fault or anything like that? Ok, thanks . . . I'll talk to you later._

_                                                            Sara_


	11. Hard times only get harder

The Las Vegas night shift was buzzing crazily. Distracted bodies bumped into each other, a chip of car paint was filed into evidence as "unidentified biological material," and more than once a CSI was seen pulling open a door only to realize that it lead to the broom closet  - again.

            Jacqui sat in her print lab, silently observing the chaos. She figured that by this time, she was about the only person in the building that had a clear head. Greg, Archie, and Bobby, usually her cohorts in tech-ism, were pretty close to useless tonight. There was also a rapidly spreading rumor that Grissom, their usually emotionless boss, hadn't said a word all night – to _anyone_.

            It wasn't that she disliked Sara, or that she was glad the other woman wouldn't be coming back - Jacqui had decided long ago that it was impossible to _not_ like such a fiercely loyal and earnest woman – but more that she had known Sara less than even the other lab techs.

So it had fallen to her to be the observer, staring through the glass and mentally cataloguing all the strange behaviors of those who had known Sara better. What she'd seen so far did not encourage her to think that things would be back to normal quickly:

Greg had his music cranked up to full volume (nothing unusual about that) but was sitting, silent and motionless, in front of one of his microscopes. Jacqui had been watching him for close to three hours now, and she hadn't yet seen him actually look into the device. Greg's only motion was to occasionally scribble something into a battered old notebook, then sigh.

Nick had been in the break room all night, nursing one cup of coffee after another. The TV in front of him was turned on, but it was playing infomercials and Jacqui doubted that he was actually watching the thing. A few times, he'd flipped open his cell phone purposefully, only to close it again with a grim look. Even his usually affable manner was muted; he'd only grunted when she'd stepped in to say hello to him.

Warrick was currently the most stable of the four CSIs in the building; he was actually doing work, though with a faraway look on his face. His brows occasionally knitted as though he were deep in thought, and then he'd mouth something that Jacqui couldn't identify to himself. She'd noticed him chasing Catherine through the halls a few times tonight, always at low speeds, but hadn't yet seen him catch the woman, and Jacqui was beginning to wonder what he was going to do if he did.

Catherine hadn't been too much in evidence tonight; the rumor was that she'd been in Grissom's office almost the entire time she'd been here. Jacqui's one glimpse of her hasn't been encouraging, either. Catherine, who had determinedly quit smoking two years ago, had been standing in the parking lot puffing on what looked like a Marlboro when Jacqui had gone to get a jacket from her car an hour ago.

Jacqui couldn't even begin to venture a guess on what Grissom was doing. She hadn't seen him all night; all she knew, she had heard from other sources around the lab. With a sigh, she decided that it was no use trying to theorize about him and went back to alternating between organizing her jars of print power and watching the CSIs who were out and about in the halls.

If one were to leave Jacqui to her thoughts and tiptoe down the hall and into the darkened office of the shift supervisor to see what he is currently doing, one would be even less encouraged than the show in the halls had indicated.

**********************************************************************

Grissom has indeed spent the entire night in his office, most of it with the lights off as he fought off the headache that was trying to break through. His fingers are steepled under his chin as he sits back in his chair, surveying the room with disinterest. His eyes appear blank and flat, but perhaps that is only a trick of the light. His thoughts, however, provide more information. Grissom has been pondering phrases from Sara's latest e-mail. He's memorized the whole thing by this point, but those key phrases keep poking out from the rest of it to taunt him. 

"_I won't ever understand that, anyway, since you are who you are._" This concept, her excusing him from blame because he "is who he is," has appeared in many of her recent communications, and it has begun to gnaw at his brain. What does Sara think he is, that he is forgiven for nearly all of his transgressions? And why does she allow it? He has been asking himself these questions for hours and has not yet found a satisfactory answer for either. 

"_Do you still not trust me?" _ Does he trust her? He doesn't really know. If asked, he would say "yes" without hesitation, but somewhere deep in his brain there is a doubt struggling to claw its way to the surface. He would trust her with his life, yes. He would trust her with a secret, sure. He'd even trust her with his tarantula; he knows she would take good care of the creature just to please him. The nagging question, though, is this: would he trust her with himself? So far, the answer is still "no," but he is conscious of the wrongness in this answer and is fighting it. He knows Sara wouldn't consciously hurt him; he suspects that even the chances of her unconsciously hurting him are slim. But, knowing this, why _didn't_ he tell her the nature of his "medical problem"? This, too, remains an unanswered question flitting through his thoughts.

Then, the real kicker: "_Which is it? You want me back there, or you want me to stay here?"_ This is what he is currently considering. What exactly _is_ it that he wants from Sara? In the most selfish part of him, he wants her with him. No doubt about that. But another part of him wants her to stay far away, just in case she really can hurt him and so he may continue in his smooth (though boring) existence. A third part of him, screaming to be heard above the clamor made by the other two, selflessly wants her to be where she is happiest. He is ruthlessly trying to gag this voice because he knows exactly where she can be happiest right now, and it is not with him.

Having exhausted Grissom's current thoughts, let us now return to our narrative, picking up only seconds after we left Jacqui's lab.

**********************************************************************

Grissom shot up in his chair when he heard the door click open, then relaxed when he realized that the intruder was only Catherine. He cocked a brow a few seconds later, though, when he realized that this Catherine smelled suspiciously like cigarette smoke. "If I'm the one who's upset, Catherine, then why are you the one who's taken up smoking again?" he asked, rather flatly considering the sarcasm implied in the words.

"You want one?" Catherine replied, holding out the pack she had bought on the way to work. "You're welcome to it. Might as well go to lung cancer hell along with me, since I'm pretty sure you're going to be useless until you can see Sara again."

Grissom blinked at her frank tone. "I'm not going to be useless, Catherine. I'm just . . . understandably shaken. As are the rest of you."

"Yeah, Gil, but the rest of us haven't locked ourselves in dark rooms all night. Granted, we haven't been exactly chipper, but at least we're better off than you right now." She fingered the cigarettes, fighting the urge to light up another one while talking. "I guess she sent you something else in addition to the mass mail we all got?"

Grissom nodded silently. He had no desire to discuss the contents of said letter with his friend, and wasn't planning on opening his mouth right now unless he was forced.

"You're not helping, Gris," Catherine prodded. "Come on, tell me what's going on and maybe between the two of us we can make some sense of it."

He sighed. "What's going on is exactly what Sara's e-mail said is going on. She's accepted the position in New Jersey on a provisional basis."

"That's it? She made this decision with absolutely no consideration for anything you've written to her in the last few weeks?"

A humorless smile crossed Grissom's face. "Actually, yes. That was specifically detailed in the e-mail she sent me last night." Pushing back his chair, he stood up. "Listen, this is Sara's decision, not mine or yours. None of us have a right to influence important choices like this in her life."

"Oh, that's such a crock. You have every right, Gris! She left because of you, so why wouldn't she come back because of you?"

"As far as I've been able to tell," he explained slowly, "she won't come back because of me because she's finally broken the emotional hold I had on her. She considered my opinion as much as she considered all of yours, and in the end none of them were strong enough to change her own opinion of what would be best."

Catherine snorted. "So she writes to you and tells you that you missed your chance with her, and you just give up like a . . . like a . . ." She struggled for an apt description. "Like a dog that just got whacked on the nose with a newspaper?"

A ghost of a real smile appeared on Grissom. " 'A a dog that just got whacked on the nose with a newspaper,' Catherine? My, you're creative tonight. And to answer your question: no, that isn't the case at all. She hasn't said anything like that to me, including anything about me missing my chance or about leaving Las Vegas because of me."

Before Catherine could think of a retort, he spoke again. "Just _listen_ for a minute, Cath. I'm talking to you and you're not listening. Sara no longer considers herself tied to Vegas or to anyone who lives here. That's not to say that she doesn't have good memories, or that she doesn't like us. Just that she's . . . grown up in some way. She's determined to do this her way, and she seems to think that the best way to do it is to stay away from here."

Catherine's face softened. "And you feel like she's trying to sever any ties she has to you, too?"

Grissom shrugged. "I don't know. She's keeping in contact with me, and we have a . . . dialogue going. So no, I wouldn't say she's trying to cut all ties to me. It seems to be" – he stopped to cough nervously – "just the emotional ones that she wants to cut."

"And you really aren't going to do anything about it?"

"I just _told_ you," he said harshly, taking a step toward her, "that nothing I 'do about it' has any power over her anymore." With a groan, Grissom ran a hand through his hair. "You got more of those?" he asked, eyeing the pack of cigarettes that Catherine still held.

"Uh, yeah . . . I only smoked one. But Gil, you haven't smoked since, what, the early 80s? These'll knock you down," Catherine protested, showing him the red packaging that indicated that the cigarettes were low in neither tar nor nicotine.

Grissom walked to the door and opened it without looking back at her. "Do I look like I care at this point? Maybe the carbon monoxide will get my brain clearer than oxygen does." Not waiting for an answer, he turned and headed for the building's exit, already anticipating the temporary boost the drug would give him.

***********************************************************************

            Thirty minutes later, still slightly lightheaded from the cigarette, which had indeed nearly knocked him down, Grissom sat back down at his desk and turned on the computer that sat on the corner. 

            He needed to answer Sara. The discussion he'd had with Catherine had left him with no more answers than he'd started with; now that he knew the feeling, he felt obligated to write Sara and give her answers to at least some of her questions. The few he actually had answers for, that is.


	12. Starting over

Sara woke up at 5 o'clock that morning and couldn't get back to sleep, no matter what she tried. After 20 minutes of laying in bed with her eyes squeezed shut, pretending that she was still asleep, she finally gave up and rolled out of bed. The bedside clock told her that she didn't have to be at work for another three hours, and there was nothing to do with all the extra time except to perform her normal morning routine very slowly.

            Her mind was still fuzzy when she got into the shower, and it was only after washing her hair that she began to really become conscious. Consciousness had always been a bother to Sara at times like this; for some reason all her deep thoughts and important decisions seemed to come to her while she was showering. Weird but true, and today was no different: the first thing her brain threw at her when it began to function was the fact that she was going to start a new job today.

            No, not just a new job – a new, higher-up job in a new place, with new people. People who appeared to be a little worrisome already, and she didn't even know them yet! If the talk she'd had with Sophie was any indicator, she wasn't exactly sure what she was going to do with the four male CSIs other than Walter: Sam, Jack, William, and Mark. Despite her having met only one of them, the entire male contingent of her CSI shift had a preliminary black mark against them in Sara's book for taking advantage of a junior coworker's desire to please.

            As she bent to shave her left leg, she sighed, wondering if this sort of thing came around regularly when one was a supervisor. Not that she couldn't handle it, she reminded herself quickly – it was just that she was just still working on the mental transition from "I do what I'm told" to "They do what I tell them."

            Still pondering what she could say to the men to make it clear that their action wasn't to be repeated, she stepped out of the shower and shrugged on her bathrobe, twisting her hair with one hand to wring the water out of it. She'd just have to see how they behaved first, and adjust her plan accordingly.

            Just as she stepped back into her bedroom, she heard the "ding" that indicated a new e-mail and stopped short. An e-mail? An e-mail! Was it from Grissom? No, she told herself, more likely junk mail or another garbled e-mail from Greg. Even as she thought this, though, her body was sitting down on the desk chair "just to make sure."

            It wasn't from Grissom.

            Sara sighed as she deleted fifteen spam messages and three listserv posts that were absolutely useless. Nothing from Grissom, nothing from Catherine, nothing from anyone at the lab. Were they going to stop speaking to her now that she'd decided not to go back there?

            The thought of such a rejection zapped her brain into self-defense mode. Fine, she thought – if they wanted to be petty little kids and stop talking because they didn't approve of her taking charge of her own life for once, that was their prerogative. If they wanted that, it wasn't her responsibility _or_ her fault; it just meant that they were asses.

            Right.

            Sure.

            Exactly. 

She wasn't going to feel bad about it, no way in hell! Nope, not this girl; she was an adult who knew her own mind, and the only person she was obligated to please was herself. Still, she found herself clicking on "Check for new message" every few seconds, in the hopes that maybe their e-mails were just in transit.

            She managed to drag herself, still e-mail-less, away from the evil machine after a few minutes and determinedly set about getting dressed. This felt like the first day of school – a day when what you wore was the first basis for people's opinions of you. With that in mind, she carefully scanned her closet, finally selecting a pair of black trousers – can't go wrong with them, plus they don't show bloodstains – and a sapphire blue, sleeveless mock-turtleneck that she hoped would keep her warm enough. Just in case, she also dug out a black cardigan, the in-style kind that was buttonless and belted. On her feet, she wore the same ankle boots she'd always worn; she had simply never found anything that functioned better in her line of work.

            At 6:30, already dressed and coiffed, she decided that, nearly two hours early or not, she couldn't sit around anymore. Preparing to leave, she gave her leather messenger bag a quick once over: pad of paper and pencil, check; cell phone, check; sunglasses and car keys, check. Did she need anything else? This required a moment's thought. Would she need a clipboard, or a change of clothes? Perhaps gum or a hairbrush?

            She ended up including everything that she even suspected a chance of needing, resulting in her lugging a seriously overstuffed bag as she made her way to the rental car she'd hired until her own car, which was being shipped from Las Vegas, could arrive.

            She had to sit behind the wheel for a minute, taking deep breaths, before she could convince her hand to turn the ignition key. "Who knew that starting over was so intimidating?" she wondered, which in turn made her wonder why she hadn't been this nervous about starting over in Las Vegas a few years ago. The answer, though she didn't want to think of it right now, was probably that she hadn't been nervous because Grissom had been there. Grissom, who she'd trusted implicitly to protect her and ease her transition.

            But there was no Grissom here for her today, she reminded herself, and it was time to grow up and realize that she didn't need him. She was perfectly capable of doing this herself, and doing it well. This thought finally spurred her into movement, and she started the car and began the drive to her new office.

***********************************************************************

            By the time she parked her car outside the lab, the feeling of euphoria had dissipated and the anxiety had returned. The first thing she had to do was . . . gulp . . . claim her office. After years of having a cubicle at best, the thought of having an entire office just _intimidated_ her, though she knew that it shouldn't.

            After one final deep breath, she entered the building, nodding to assorted workers who greeted her, though she'd never met any of them. An office . . .

            And suddenly she was standing in the doorway, surveying the empty space she was expected to personalize and make useful. God, it was big! . . . No! None of this weak, "oh, what shall I do?" act! She was going to walk into this office, set up the stuff she'd brought with her, and start acting like the boss she was supposed to be!

            Sara did as the voice in her head ordered. Her first action was to pull out and examine the cushy desk chair she'd been provided; her second was to set up her laptop and check the to-do list she'd constructed in anticipation of her first few days here.

            Seconds after opening the list, she heard that beep again. Another e-mail had arrived, and she tried to stop herself from rushing to see who it was from . . . an attempt which failed miserably, even though she really didn't expect it to be from any of the people she wanted to hear from. Then the "From" line appeared, and she blinked hard . . . then she opened it.

_From: Gil Grissom grissomg@nevadaonline.com _

_Date: Wednesday, August 6th, 2003 7:02 A.M._

_To: Sara ssidle@hotmail.com _

_Subject: I owe you some of these . . ._

_            Sara,_

            I owe you some explanations, I know. That's why I'm writing this. I just want you to know first that in my last e-mail, I wasn't purposely being evasive – I guess I've just been doing it so long that it's part of my personality now. Between re-reading your e-mail and being verbally beaten by Catherine, I think my head's a little clearer now, and I'm sitting here writing this determined to answer as many of your questions as I can. I feel I have to warn you, though, that "as many as I can" doesn't mean *all* of your questions. There are some that neither you nor I can answer at this point, as I'm sure you've realized. I'm going to try to do this in an orderly fashion so I can keep track and make sure I don't skip anything I wanted to answer. So:

1.         You want a better explanation of why and how I realized that I was treating you badly. Well, as you already know, the short answer is that I realized it after the night you asked me to dinner. The long answer has a bit more to it, though I'm not sure if it will clarify things much more. 

            The long answer, then. Well, it still begins with that night, the night I refused your invitation. Believe it or not, my "no" wasn't meant as much as a "No, I won't go out with you" as it was a "Ha ha, very funny, Sara. Nice try, but you're not distracting me that easily." Yes, I thought you were kidding at first. Don't take offense at that, please, as I didn't mean it in an unpleasant way. It was just . . . the way you threw it out there in the middle of us discussing your safety – well, I thought that you were trying to distract me from the tongue-lashing I was about to give you (which I still think you need to hear).

            I realized immediately, by the expression on your face, that you hadn't been trying to distract me at all, that you had intended it as a serious question. Of course, being myself, I didn't apologize to you, just in case I was reading your face wrong after all. I did try to answer you better with my next comment, but I think I just managed to make things worse when I told you I didn't know what to do about our . . . thing. That, too, wasn't really a "no." I was . . . well, I was hedging. There are a myriad reasons why I know – or believe, if you prefer - that I would have been wrong if I had accepted your offer. Some of them may even be true!

            But the bottom line, really, is that I don't think well on my feet. As we both know from experience, if you put me behind a desk and give me a problem to solve, I will usually come up with a suitable, even exceptional, solution. What you may not realize is that if you were to pose the same question to me, then look at me and wait for an answer, I'd come up with either a useless answer, or none at all. I can't sit here and say that if you had asked me the same question in a different way, that I would have given a different sort of answer, but I can say with 99% surety that if it had been asked in a different way that allowed me time to think, I would have come up with something that wasn't so . . . hurtful

            Well, all that was the long way to the explanation I started to give you – I knew that what I said had come out wrong the moment I opened my mouth, and it was really one of the first times you'd stuck around long enough for me to see the hurt in your eyes when I said it. Your eyes are very expressive, Sara, especially when it comes to displaying pain, and I saw it in them that day. And thus my sad attempts to make amends, which turned out to be just as harmful as the way I responded to your question.

            Yeeeah, and about those attempts . . . now that you've knocked me over the head with a reality check, I realize that my methods were weak at best, harmful at worst. I honestly did think I was going to make you feel better by bringing you that pizza, and, well . . . I can't make it better now, but I can promise you that I've learned from the mistake, and next time I offend you (and we both know I will, eventually), I'll give it more thought and try to come up with a woman-friendly way to apologize.

2.         My . . . medical problem. Ok, let me take a deep breath before I do this . . . there, I feel slightly better. At least my answer to this question will be shorter than the novel I just wrote to answer your previous question. So the answer: I had – still have, really, I suppose – a disease called otosclerosis. You can find some information on it here: if you would like to look, otherwise I'll offer you a shorter explanation here. 

Otosclerosis is essentially a condition in which the stapes bone, more commonly known as the stirrup bone, of "hammer, anvil, and stirrup" fame, hardens.  As I'm sure you're aware, human hearing depends on these bones to transmit sound waves. The solidifying of one of them can cause major damage to one's hearing because it would absorb, but not transmit, the sound waves necessary for hearing.

To make a long story short, the stapes bones in both of my ears solidified to the point where I was experiencing persistent, extended hearing loss (So no, I wasn't ignoring you guys all those times; for half of them, I just couldn't hear you). I recently had a double stapedectomy, removing the solidified bones and implanting prostheses in their place, and thanks to that surgery my hearing is nearly back to normal (89%, to be exact, enough to negate the need for a hearing aid, at least currently).

Well, that answers the question of "What is it?" but I still owe you one to "Why didn't you tell me?" To tell you the truth, I don't really have an answer to this. I can tell you that it's not because I don't trust you, or because I thought you wouldn't care. And it certainly wasn't because I didn't think you deserved to know about it. I can easily tell you what it *wasn't* because of; I just don't know right now what it *was* because of.

3.         My feelings. This is the hardest question for me to answer, because the answer is so intangible. I'm not really sure that I *can* clarify what I meant enough to satisfy you, but I'm going to try.

            You ask why I said that I have feelings for you, then told you to take the job in New Jersey. At the risk of sounding melodramatic and soap-opera-esque, the answer is that I told you to take the job because I know that it's what's best for you right now. Were you to move back to Las Vegas right now, I suspect that the two of us would slip right back into our old habits. Okay . . . I suspect that *I* would slip back into *my* old habits. Meaning that I'm afraid that I might begin driving you away all over again. And trust me, that's the last thing I want to happen. That's why I made the suggestion of trying to become friends again long-distance.

            I remember you telling me once that, "It's easy to wear your heart on your sleeve when you're not looking him in the eye." I think I understand now what you meant when you said that, and I'm hoping that we can make it work to our advantage.

            I need to make this clear, though – I'm not saying that resolving things is a condition of our e-mailing; it makes me happy just to hear from you, even if you may be cursing at me the whole while. If you want to communicate simply as acquaintances, I'm willing to stay on that level. If you want to communicate as friends, I'm certainly willing to stick to that. If you'd like to, as you put it a few weeks ago, "see what happens" . . . well, then, you'll make me a happy man.

            Speaking only for myself, I'd like to try the third option – but only if you're willing. I guess all those songs were right when they said that you never realize what you want until it's (or they're) gone. Your leaving made me come to my senses in many ways, and now that those senses are back, they're clamoring for me to make good.

            I hope this answers some of your questions. If it doesn't, well, maybe we can work out more of the answers in future e-mails. I never realized how horrible I was at communicating with you until we started talking like this. No wonder you spent so much time angry with me!  Now I want to prove to you that I *do* know how to conduct myself like an actually human being, so please give me the chance.

                                                                        G


	13. These weird new CSIs

**A/N**: My sincerest apologies for disappearing for the week and leaving you guys hanging. My boss suddenly tossed a month's worth of work at me to have done by yesterday, which interfered massively with my writing schedule. I finished it (well, most of it), though, so I'm hoping to get back on schedule with PB and MPL now.

Part 13

            Sara sat back and sighed, still staring at the screen. Grissom's answer had been . . . expansive. He'd actually answered her questions, and in terms she could understand! 

His final question, though, was going to sit heavily on her mind all day. What _did_ she want to do about "…this," now that he'd asked? 

She'd have to e-mail him back and say something so he at least knew she'd read the note, she thought. Did she have enough time? A quick check of her watch told her that she didn't; it was 7:50 and she would have to meet with her new team in a few minutes.

            Scribbling down a note on the spanking-new desk blotter to remind herself to answer him later (like she was going to need a reminder!), she logged out of Windows and closed the laptop's cover, then stood up. After surveying this strange new room one more time, she flicked off the lights and shut the door, shaking her head incredulously.

            The old slogan ran through her head as she walked down the hall to the plushly appointed "Team Room": this was the first day of the rest of her life. So what was she going to do with it?

            "Hi guys," Sara said lightly as she walked into the room, which was much larger than the old-fashioned break room she was used to meeting in. She took stock of the group: Sophie was perched on the back of the couch in the back of the room, looking like she was trying to stay as far away from the three laughing men who surrounded the conference-type table as she could. Walter was sitting on the formica counter that jutted out from the wall, swinging his legs and eyeing the same three men defensively. The last person Sara noticed was a man who, by rights, should have been noticed first – he must have weighed at least two hundred pounds, and none of it was fat. He was wedged between the other end of Sophie's couch and the wall, looking like he was trying to crunch his large frame into the corner.

 "I'm sure you all know of me by now, but I'll introduce myself anyway," Sara continued after a moment's observation. "My name is Sara Sidle and I'll be taking over the position of day shift supervisor. To give you a little background about me, I recently moved out here from Las Vegas, where I spent nearly three years as a CSI III." She paused to evaluate the group's reactions and was gratified to find that no one had yet fallen asleep. "Since I only know two of you so far, I'd appreciate it if we could go around and have each of you introduce yourselves for me."

"I'll start," Walter spoke up quickly. "Ok well, you already met me so you know some of this . . . I'm Walter Lopez and I just got promoted to CSI II. I've been here pretty much since I graduated college three years ago." The other four men applauded jokingly and one reached over slapped Walter on the back. Walter winced.

The next to speak was a man who looked to be only slightly older than Walter. A pair of wire-rim glasses sat low on his nose as he leveled his rather intimidating gaze at Sara. He had his long, light brown hair pulled into a ponytail that reached the middle of his back and he wore a relatively fitted outfit that reminded her of Nick's style. "Sam Collins," he said with a small nod. "And it's nice to meet ya," he added in a slick voice, sticking out a hand for Sara to shake.

Reluctantly, she shook it. "Nice to meet you, Sam. Give me some background, please. How long have you been here, what's your level, any other information you'd like to offer . . ."

"I've been here for two years longer than junior over here," he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at Walter. "Joined up in '98. CSI III as of 2002." He shrugged and offered no more information.

"Oh, come on, man," the guy next to him cajoled, punching Sam in the arm. "Give the woman a little 'background'!"

Sam scowled at his friend, but deigned to tell Sara some more about himself. "Born and raised in Hawthorne. My degree's in chemistry."

Sara blinked. "Harthun?"

"Hawthorne," the man next to Sam explained. "You gotta live here for a while before you learn how to pronounce it."

"Ooookay," she said doubtfully. "Well thanks, Sam. How about you next?" she asked, raising her eyebrows at Sam's friend.

"Yes ma'am," he answered smartly. "Mark Sellers, at your service," he began, tipping an imaginary hat at her. Sara noticed that he, too, had long hair, though it was black and not nearly as long as his friend's. "I hit CSI III the day before Sammy." He turned to smirk at Sam, then returned his attention to Sara. "I've been here since late 1997. Before that I was doing grad work in Crim at UPenn – I grew up in Wilkes-Barre, PA." He pronounced the abbreviation as it was spelled – "Pee-Ay."

Mark, too, stuck out a hand to shake with Sara, revealing a small tattoo on his wrist as the sleeve of his jacket shifted. "Scales of Justice?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.

He seesawed his hand. "Half. I was born in early October, too, so it's the Scales of Justice and the astrological symbol for Libra – at least, sort of."

She nodded. "Nice." 

Mark shrugged, then offered her a small smile and jerked his chin at the man sitting across from him. "You're up, Will."

Will, whose short hair was gelled into spikes and dyed a light blue, jumped to his feet and saluted. The combination of his hair and his abrupt style of movement brought a flood of memories of Greg back to Sara. "Will Hennessy," he announced. "Been here since '99 and I'm about ten cases away from making CSI III." He looked down for a second, appearing to gather his thoughts. "I'm like Sammy, born and raised in the area. Or, to be more specific, born and raised in a small town called Ringwood." 

He didn't articulate the final 'd' in the town's name, and Sara blinked. "Ringworm? Like the disease?"

This brought uproarious laughter from all of the room's occupants with the exception of Sara. "Right on, Sidle!" Sam whooped, still laughing. "Told ya, Wills – you guys should just go ahead and change the name so you can tell people they got it right!"

Will's freckled face – Sara suspected he was a redhead under all that hair dye – was turning a dull red as he glowered at his friends. "Uh, no. It's RingWOOD. Like, a circle of pieces of trees." He sighed. "So, anyways . . . I have a B.S. in Math and a B.S. in Computer Science, both from Montclair State U. Turns out I'm pretty good at B.S.," he added with a grin.

"Ah, Montclair State - that's close to where I'm staying right now," Sara said with a smile. "I'm living in this obscenely huge Victorian house in Montclair."

"Wow," marveled Mark, raising his eyebrows.

"How'd you afford something like _that_?" Will asked incredulously.

Before Sara could speak, Mark answered Will by smacking him in the back of the head. "Oh come _on_, man – how rude can you get! Why don't you just ask her how much she makes a year, and ask her how much she weighs while you're at it?"

She couldn't help but laugh at the very accurate defense. "Thanks, Mark. Will, let's make this your first lesson in how not to pry into your coworkers' private lives, ok?" Will turned an even brighter shade of red and, despite how much she disliked his prying, Sara began to feel just a tiny bit bad. "But for your information, I'm sharing the house with my brother – he's the one who owns it, and he's got a bigshot job in New York. And on that note, I think it's time to move on to you two," she concluded, nodding at the two people sitting on the couch.

Sophie and the as-yet-unidentified man, who she assumed was Jack, the only CSI she hadn't met yet, exchanged wary looks. "You go," he told her after a moment.

Sophie, like Will, turned slightly red. The combination of very blond hair and a very red face made he look slightly comical, but Sara noticed that no one in the room even smirked. Maybe these guys weren't as bad as she had thought. "Umm . . ." Sophie began, "well you already met me kinda . . I'm, uh, Sophie Harrison. I just got hired a few months ago, so I'm a CSI I – but I learn quick! I grew up in upstate New York and I went to school up there too. I just got my B.S. in bio from SUNY Buffalo and moved to big, bad New Jersey because, well, no one commits good crimes up by me."

Sara grinned. "Ah, a woman after my own heart. If you want 'good' crimes, you should try spending a few years in Las Vegas – you'll see everything you can possibly imagine, plus a few things you didn't know were physically possible." She nodded at Sophie, who smiled gratefully. "Ok, and . . .you?" Sara asked, looking at the-man-who-was-probably-Jack.

"I'm Jack DiLuca," he said in a quiet voice that didn't seem to match his large size. "Well, that's what I go by. But I'm one hundred percent Italian, from Little Italy and everything, though, so it's technically 'Giacomo DiLuca,' if that matters. I've been here the longest out of any of these guys – since 1995. Um, I got my degree from NYU – B.S. in physics - and I'm a CSI III."

Sara raised her eyebrows. "Physics, huh? Me too." When Jack didn't answer, she cocked her head to the side and studied him. "You want to add anything else, or are you done?"

"I'm done," he answered quickly, appearing very glad that the attention would soon be off him.

"Okay," Sara said slowly, looking around the room. "Well, thank you all for giving me some information about you. I came from a lab where my shift – I worked nights there – was a real team and we were all friends, so I'm hoping I'll see the same atmosphere here. So far, it's looking good," she added, smiling slightly at the men she was beginning to think of as the "three stooges," all three of whom wore goofy grins at the moment.

"Oh, I forgot to ask for one more thing," Sara said suddenly. "Would you guys mind going around one more time and telling me of any forensic specialties or real-life hobbies that you have?"

Sam heaved a dramatic sigh. "Man, first day and she's already monopolizing our brains," he groaned loudly.

"Aw, just shut up and answer, Chewy," Will shot back at him from across the table, causing a burst of laughter from Mark.

"Chewy?" Sara asked when no one had offered a clarification after a few seconds.

Mark laughed again. "Chewy, like Chewbacca – you don't ever want to see Sam with his shirt off, trust me. Plus, he's got enough hair on his head to knit a sweater or something. Too much hair, thus the wookie reference." Reaching over, he snapped his fingers in front of Sam's face. "Get with the program, bud – the quicker you give the girl the information she wants, the quicker we get to catch a case."

"Materials analysis," Sam said promptly as the logic of Mark's words hit him.

"I'm a jack of all trades around the lab, but on my own time I'm a biker – but a non-criminal one," Mark said when Sam was done. 

Mark raised his eyebrows at Will, who picked up smoothly. "I usually get stuck doing the math stuff, for obvious reasons. You need a regression, you come to me."

"Fiber analysis." Walter.

"I'm the people person," Sophie threw in, "or so they tell me."

Jack looked up from an intensive study of his fingernails and grimaced. "I'm usually elected to provide the brawn in most cases, for obvious reasons," he explained, glancing at his left bicep, "but if anyone ever stopped to ask" – he directed a disapproving look at his male coworkers – "I could tell them that I do a pretty damn good job at blood spatter analysis. All that physics, you know," he concluded with a wink.

"Ok," Sara said dubiously, still pondering this new tag-team approach to question answering. "Well, thanks for those expansive answers. My specialty is materials/element analysis, for the record. Now," she said, consulting the pile of assignment slips that had been conveniently left on the counter for her, "how about we actually do some work?"

A chorus of comments like "Woohoo!" "Hell yeah!" "Thank you god!" and "Yes, please!" answered her question quite adequately.


	14. Nothing's ever that easy

Sara slipped into her chair and gathered her hair into a straggly ponytail as she checked the clock. It was 7:00 P.M., which left an hour before her shift ended, but the case she and Sophie had worked had come to a predictable resolution half an hour before. Now, other than organizing things that didn't need to be organized, there was little for her to do until the two teams of men she'd sent out earlier arrived back at the lab.

She leaned her head back to stare at the ceiling and began, in what she hoped was a supervisory manner, to mentally sort through the night's cases. The robbery she'd taken Sophie on had been frustratingly simple; it turned out to have been perpetrated by a neighbor's teenage son. Sophie had enjoyed the successful solve, but Sara had been bored out of her mind, wishing that she'd been less selfless and had taken one of the more challenging cases she'd sent the other CSIs on. Sam, Will, and Walter were still out on their attempted rape case, and she'd heard over the scanner that Mark and Jack were just now on their way back to the lab after dealing with a homicide. Nothing for her to do, she thought again, at least until the rest of her team arrived to give her results from their cases.

The thought that had been circling in the back of her mind all night took advantage of this realization and zoomed its way to the front of her consciousness: Grissom's e-mail. As usual, she wasn't sure how to deal with what he'd told her; the feeling was perhaps even more intense tonight because this time, he'd put the ball in her court in a big way. Well, she decided, the first step in composing an answer was re-reading the question. 

            _. . .  but I can promise you that I've learned from the mistake, and next time I offend you (and we both know I will, eventually), I'll give it more thought and try to come up with a woman-friendly way to apologize . . ._

            She had to laugh when she read this part. How very . . . frank . . . that statement was, considering Grissom's usually aloof manner. The only times she'd ever heard him admit to being wrong or misguided had all been work situations, and here he was confessing that he was sure that he'd piss her off again sooner or later. 

_            . . . I need to make this clear, though – I'm not saying that resolving things is a condition of our e-mailing; it makes me happy just to hear from you, even if you may be cursing at me the whole while. If you want to communicate simply as acquaintances, I'm willing to stay on that level. If you want to communicate as friends, I'm certainly willing to stick to that. If you'd like to, as you put it a few weeks ago, "see what happens" . . . well, then, you'll make me a happy man._

Yep, the ball wasn't just in her court; it was buried three feet deep in her court from the force of his serve. Even though she'd first read the e-mail almost twelve hours ago, she was still fighting the surprise that rose within her upon reading that Grissom had actually said that he'd be interested in a . . . thing . . . with her. The issue now was whether _she_ was interested in one or not.

After years of struggling with her feelings for him, after all the effort she put into hiding them . . . after going so far as to pack up her life and move across the country to get him out of her mind . . . did she want to forget all of that, and try one more time?

She rested her head in her hands and rubbed her temples. Great, now she'd worked her brain into a knot again – time for the aspirin. Reaching for her leather bag, she began digging, only to realize after a few seconds that somehow, with everything that she had stuffed into the bag that morning, she hadn't packed anything that would relieve a headache. "Shit," she muttered, taking a deep breath and biting her lip angrily.

Great. Just great. She had a headache on her first day at this job, she had no drugs to make it feel better, and she still had to deal with Grissom. Was this something no one had told her about being a supervisor? Did headaches come with the territory, and the powers that be just didn't spread that information around?

A beep from the computer brought her mind back to what she had been about to do. She couldn't do anything about the headache or the lack of medicine, so she might as well write back to Grissom and get it over with.

_From: Sara ssidle@hotmail.com_

_Date: Wednesday, August 6th, 2003 7:12 P.M._

_To: grissomg@nevadaonline.com_

_Subject: (no subject)_

_            Grissom,_

_            Hi there. I'm not too sure what to say right now, considering what you wrote me this morning, because you know, this was my first day here and all, and it's been a little weird. So, hmm . . . I'm going to just tell you what's going on by me, and maybe by the time I finish that, I'll have figured out what I'm gonna say about what you asked me._

            So, today. Well, before I tell you about today, let me give you a little background. Remember how I told you that the older guys were bullying the youngest CSI here? Well, so I went into work this morning all prepared to be Miss Discipline and make sure they knew that that was *not* acceptable. I walk into the break room – but they call it the Team Room (yep, in caps) here – and there's just this room full of lively people. Walter, the guy who gave me a tour earlier and Sophie, the new girl, I both knew already. But then there's three guys gathered around the conference table and I swear, for a minute I thought I was walking into work in at home because they sounded so much like Nick, Warrick, and Greg. But they're not of course, so then I get up in the front of the room (feeling like I'm giving a lecture or something) and introduce myself and all, and ask them to introduce themselves. So Walter goes first, nothing interesting there.

_            Then this great-looking guy named Sam Collins starts talking. Ok well actually, I don't really know if he's great-looking or not, because I stopped checking him out when I got to his hair. All I know is that he's got hair that's way better than mine, and much longer.  But he starts talking, and he's maybe a little stiff, but he's friendly and tells me what I wanted to know. I get the feeling that he's a smart guy, but he doesn't really know what to do with it, so instead he kinda goofs off._

_            And then there was Will Hennessy, who I swear to god is Greg's cosmic twin. The guy's got blue, spiky hair and he needs a big dose of Ritalin. He's also kinda rude, but in an "Oh my god, did I just offend you?" sort of way. You know, the kind of guy where you want to put him in a headlock and give him a great, big noogie. He started asking me things like how could I afford to live in Montclair, and so on, but then another guy, Mark Sellers, spoke up and set him straight._

_            Ok, let me just tell you how cool this guy Mark is. He's got a degree in Criminal Justice from UPenn and he's a biker on his days off. He definitely has the coolest tattoo ever; it's a scale on his wrist with a double meaning – justice and his zodiac sign. But he seems like maybe the smartest of the bunch, and definitely the most well-mannered (not that it matters much, but it always helps to have someone who knows not to ask a lady her weight!). And, strangely enough considering his biker persona, he's definitely the disciplinarian for the other four guys._

_            Then there's my favorite. This guy kinda reminds me of you, but I'll get to that in a minute. So his name is Jack DiLuca (or, "technically, Giacomo DiLuca," as he told me) and he's got to be about 6'5" and weigh two hundred pounds or more, but he's the most soft-spoken guy I've ever met, next to you. When I came into the room, he was hiding on a couch in the corner, looking like he'd like to disappear behind Sophie, who's, like, 5 feet tall and 100 pounds. Funny sight, let me tell you!_

_            Ok, well, that wasn't to say I think you're the type to hide in the corner; you're more likely to be the guy in the front of the room watching everything that goes on. But he's the same as you in that he doesn't seem to see a lot of need to speak most of the time. And that even though he's quiet and a little bit antisocial, he's the one who tries to protect Sophie when the other guys pick on her. She seems to be really comfortable with him, too – maybe they'll end up dating (Hmm, is that allowed here? I need to check the regulationss!). _

_They'd be a cute couple, and you know . . . I really think I see a lot of me in Sophie. Not the pushover-ness (when has anyone ever known me to be a pushover?), but the desire to do things right and well, and to make sure everyone knows that she's just as capable and intelligent as they are. Sounds silly, but I think of myself as taking her "under my wing."_

_            So as a step to that, I took Sophie on the world's easiest B&E tonight. You know, the usual . . . neighbor saw something through the window, broke in . . ._

_            Ok, wait. Now I'm just dawdling. If I let myself keep going you'll get a 16-page e-mail that doesn't even touch on your questions! So, let me take a deep breath like you did before you started . . . there._

_            Ok, the problem is that I don't have a whole lot to say. I mean, I do, but it's not going to take as many words as my description of today's work, so don't think I'm hiding things from you in this answer or anything like that, because I'm not. I'm just, uh . . . Oh, never mind. Just read it._

_            Ok so you asked what level I want to communicate with you on. Here's the deal from my end: It's really cool that you finally managed to admit that you want to try something between us, and I'm proud of you for spitting out. The thing is, I'm not too sure what I want now that I'm here and have thought about it. _

_            Don't get me wrong; I still have the crush/whatever you call it on you. It's just that I moved out here, found a new job, and put all this effort into breaking the hold you had (have?) over me, and to tell you the truth it feels good. I'm proud of myself – I have my own life here, new friends, a (questionably) better job . . . and what feels the best is that my emotions are *mine* now. My mood doesn't depend on how someone treats me at work every day, and that's a very good thing. Basically, I'm beginning to act like a normal person again. Granted, a geeky normal person, but a normal person all the same._

_            So, uh . . . I don't think I'm ready to go for what's behind Door Number 3 yet. I want to establish an existence here, and see what that brings with it, and I agree with you that me coming home right now would be pointless because you'd blow me off. So I'm cool with being just friends for now, but I'm also not going to complain if we maybe get into some discussions that are a little deeper than friends might dig. Hey, maybe I'll get you trained to start acting more like a human to everyone, and not just to me (because face it, you really are starting to sound human, as improbable as it might sound - and don't pretend you're being this nice to the whole team), huh?_

_            Ok so . . . my decision is to stick with communicating as friends – but friends who actually like and trust each other. You show me your secrets, and I'll show you mine (if you ask nicely, that is!), how's that?_

_                                                                        Sara_


	15. Why do I feel so cold?

Part 15

"Gil?"

Grissom's head jerked up in surprise. He tore his eyes away from the e-mail he'd been staring at on the computer monitor and focused on the body in his office doorway. "Catherine. Can I help you?"

"Probably not. I just figured I'd come check on you, since the only times you're late to the team meeting are the times when you've got an e-mail from a certain brunette." She took a few steps into the room, expecting Grissom to growl something defensive at her any second. When he didn't, she walked further in and crossed behind his desk so that she could see the computer screen. "Yep, Sara."

"Of course 'Sara,'" he said, scrolling up in the window so that Catherine could only see the e-mail's headers. "As you just said, Catherine, she's the only thing that can unsettle me this much."

"How much?"

Grissom regarded her coolly. "Are you trying to get me to tell you that you're welcome to read the damn thing?" he asked grumpily, waving a hand at the screen. "Because if you are, I'll have you know that this is a private communication, not something that's a new source for office gossip." He turned in his chair so he was positioned between Catherine's eyes and his monitor.

"You told me all about it last time. What's wrong with telling me this time?"

"I didn't tell you anything last time that you didn't already know from what she'd e-mailed all of you. This e-mail, however, was not sent to everyone and is not meant to be read by everyone."

Catherine leveled a skeptical gaze at him. "What's so different about this? Did she write you a dirty letter or something?"

"No!" he snapped, shutting the window containing Sara's e-mail. "Why can't you just leave it alone and stop insulting her and pissing me off?"

"What'd I say?" she said, blinking. "I wasn't insulting anyone. I just meant that you're acting really overprotective about this e-mail, when you haven't about the others."

"Not your business," Grissom said shortly, standing up so that Catherine was forced to back up from her position behind his chair. "Can you pretend to be a professional for a few minutes so I can go start the shift?"

Giving him an amused look, she shrugged. "That's what I came in here for to begin with." She turned to follow him as he strode to the door and stood, waiting for her to leave before he shut and locked his office door.

"Jeez, touchy touchy," Catherine said with raised eyebrows.

******************************************************

"You know better, Gris," Warrick told him twenty minutes later as Grissom drove the Tahoe to their scene. "You're gonna kill yourself with those, and then Sara's gonna be pissed."

"Sara won't be anything," Grissom corrected, flicking his ashes out the window. "She lives across the country, remember?"

"What, you think she wouldn't come home for your funeral and say nasty things to your casket?" Warrick snorted. "The woman cares, Gris, no matter where she is."

"Can we PLEASE not talk about Sara for once? She's not here. She moved. I am here. I didn't move. And I'm your boss."

Warrick winced. "Hey, whatever you say. But I'm telling you, Sara or no Sara, you gotta stop with the cigarettes."

"Well, it's a good thing I don't have to obey what you say, then, isn't it?" He took another defiant puff and deliberately allowed some of the smoke he exhaled to drift toward Warrick.

There was no getting through to the man, Warrick decided as he tried to fan away the carcinogenic air. Grissom was on the warpath tonight, and Warrick wondered what Sara had said to him to make him so . . . whatever he was. Angry? Dejected? Leaning his head back against the headrest, he sighed. Catherine had slipped him a note about Grissom's mood at the meeting, but he hadn't thought it was this bad.

"What?"

Warrick looked at Grissom in confusion. "Huh? I didn't say anything."

"You're looking at me."

"No, I wasn't. Gris, you need to chill out. You're not gonna be able to work tonight if you won't let yourself cool off." He held out a hand to stop Grissom from speaking. "And that's the last non-work-related thing I'm gonna say to you tonight unless you speak to me first."

Grissom muttered something unintelligible and swung the Tahoe into a hard right turn into the Tropicana's parking lot.

******************************************************

            Grissom was still in a vicious mood when he and Warrick arrived back at the lab four hours later. He wasn't speaking to Warrick, he was avoiding Catherine, and he stalked through the hallways like he was searching for his next victim. Techs scattered as he approached, and whispers abounded once he was gone.

            At 6AM, Nick cornered him in the locker room, hoping to diffuse the situation. "Hey, Grissom," he said calmly, coming around the bank of lockers Grissom was surveying blankly. "You got a second?"

"No."

"Too bad," Nick said flatly, and pushed against Grissom's shoulder, forcing the older man to step backward and sit heavily on the bench behind him. "You need to listen to me, ok? I don't particularly care what Sara said to you, or what you said to Sara, or what your gay Martian one-eyed lover said to you, or whatever else might have happened; I'm just here to tell you that you've got to give up the junkyard dog act."

Grissom said nothing for a long second. "Junkyard dog?" he finally asked emotionlessly.

"Yes. As in, you're snapping at anyone who comes near you, whether they're bringing you a bone or a beating." He eyed Grissom, checking for a reaction, but saw none. "Work with me here, Gris. We're still a team, no matter who's here and who's not. You can't go around not talking to two of the team members – and probably a third after I'm finished in here – and expect us to still be an effective group. Like it or not, you're the boss and we're the followers. If you're not willing to keep up the interpersonal supports we all have, then we're screwed."

Grissom sighed. "Nick, this is not the end of the world. I'm just having a bad night, is all."

"Try telling that to Catherine. She's afraid you're never going to trust her again, even though she didn't do anything wrong to begin with. Try telling that to Warrick. He thinks you're never even going to speak to him again, just because he told you you need to quit smoking." Nick fixed him with a piercing look. "Like I said, I don't give a shit what's going on between you and anyone else; all I'm interested in right now is being able to do my job, and I can't do that when this whole place is so tense that I'm afraid it's going to shatter any second."

"Then go do your job and stop harassing me. I'll be fine; I'm just having a bad night. Drop it."

Nick looked at Grissom for a few seconds, waiting some reaction, any reaction. There was none, and he sighed. "Fine, Gris. I'm going. But just keep what I said in mind. We need you."

Grissom stood outside his townhouse three hours later, smoking his fifth cigarette of the night. Or day. Or whatever it was; he didn't exactly care enough to keep track. Inhaling the smoke deeply, he leaned against the rough brick wall and considered the events of the night.

Ok, so maybe he'd been an asshole to people tonight. Everyone was entitled to a bad day every now and then; it wasn't like his being angry with Catherine was going to bring about a nuclear winter. She was moody too; it wasn't like she was always Miss Sunshine.

And Warrick, well, he should have known better than to try to try to give his boss orders about what was good and bad. If Grissom wanted to smoke three packs a day, he would, no matter what anyone said.

Strangely enough, he wasn't angry with Nick, despite the dressing-down the younger man had given him. Grissom supposed that the lack of anger was due to Nick's explicitly saying that he didn't care about who said what to whom. Whether it was the truth or not (and he suspected it really wasn't), it made him feel better to think that there was at least one person in the lab who didn't think they were living in a soap opera.

Grissom sighed heavily, then coughed as the sigh met the mouthful of smoke he'd just inhaled. With a frown, he snuffed out his cigarette against the wall and dropped it into the nearest "butt bin" the complex had provided.

Nick had been right, at least partly. He couldn't go on being a bear to everyone who came near him, no matter how much he might want to. He *was* the boss, and he had to try to set some sort of example. To be able to do that, he needed to work out this latest wrinkle in his personal life, as distasteful a task as he found it to be. Or at least, try to work it out . . .

_From: Gil Grissom grissomg@nevadaonline.com _

_Date: Thursday, August 7th, 2003  9:18 A.M._

_To: Sara ssidle@hotmail.com _

_Subject: Re: (no subject)_

_            Sara,_

_            Well, it sounds like you're having a good time in your new position. I'm glad to hear that you get along with your coworkers and that you've found a protégé. Every good master must have one. I'm sure you're also happy that your male CSIs are all attractive and your age, as that must make working and developing good relationships with them quite easy.  It's a good sign that you realize that your CSIs are not the same people as the people you knew here; I know that the human instinct is to try to make such connections to make oneself more comfortable, but it seldom turns out for the better._

_            I want to caution against you trying to play matchmaker, though. Perhaps Sophie and Jack are alike and perhaps they might eventually become a couple, but as I'm sure you've noticed over the years, relationships between two CSIs, especially with a large age gap between them, are unlikely to work. Again, I strongly suggest that you abandon any plots you might be making for the two of them._

_            I'm glad to hear that you're, uh, "proud" of me, Sara; I always enjoy emotional validation from my peers. I hope you're settling in well to your new job and your new surroundings. Have you found an apartment yet?_

_            Well, it's just about my bedtime, so I'll say goodnight, or good morning, or whatever you call it these days._

_                                                                        Grissom_

            He clicked the "send" button without pausing to re-read what he'd written. He knew it wasn't as warm a missive as he usually sent her, but he didn't much care. Grissom was not in a good mood, and he felt no need to pretend he was in his communication to Sara.

            Ten minutes later, as he was setting his alarm clock in his bedroom, his computer alerted him to a new e-mail.

_From: Sara ssidle@hotmail.com_

_Date: Thursday, August 7th, 2003  9:28 A.M._

_To: grissomg@nevadaonline.com_

_Subject: ??!!_

            _Grissom,_

_What the fuck was that?_

_                                                                        Sara_

            Grissom stared at the screen. What the hell did she think she was doing, cursing at him when all he'd done was send her a perfectly good e-mail?

_From: Gil Grissom grissomg@nevadaonline.com _

_Date: Thursday, August 7th, 2003  9:31 A.M._

_To: Sara ssidle@hotmail.com _

_Subject: Re: ??!!_

_            "That" is what is commonly known as an e-mail, Sara. Was there something wrong with the transmission, that you were unable to determine that?_

_                                                                                    Grissom_

            There. That ought to show her.

_From: Sara ssidle@hotmail.com_

_Date: Thursday, August 7th, 2003  9:40 A.M._

_To: grissomg@nevadaonline.com_

_Subject: Re: Re: ??!!_

_            Don't give me that bullshit. You just sent me the coldest e-mail ever, and you want to pretend nothing's wrong with that? What the hell, Grissom? Yesterday you wanted to be my best friend; today I don't even deserve a full-length e-mail, let alone one that sounds like you give a shit about anything or anyone I told you about?_

_            You can be as pissy as you want, but I want an explanation about *why* you're being such a bitch._

            She hadn't bothered to sign this e-mail, and Grissom stared at the screen. HE was the one being a bitch? Him? He wasn't the one who'd just gone off on a rant about nothing. He wasn't the one who was hardly even using complete sentences. What the hell did she want from him, anyway? God, he needed a cigarette.

            Ten minutes later his computer was shut down and he was back outside his house, sucking down smoke like it was his job in life.


	16. You must unlearn what you have learned

Sara shook out her still-wet hair and threw her towel in the general direction of the clothes hamper. Padding back into her bedroom, she let out a deep sigh. This was not shaping up to be a good night, what with the nasty e-mails she'd gotten from Grissom that morning and the e-mail from Warrick she'd discovered just before she took her shower.

            She hadn't heard from any of her Las Vegas friends other than Grissom for almost a week, so she had been surprised to see Warrick's name in her inbox. What he had written had left her not surprised, though, but absolutely livid, which was why she'd taken her shower after reading it: to allow herself some cool-down time before she dealt with it's topic.

            Tugging on a pair of flannel pajama pants, she slid into her desk chair to re-read the thing in the hopes that she'd misinterpreted it the first time.

From: Brown, Warrick  Brownw@lasvegas.cl.com 

_Date: Thursday, August 7th, 2003 3:30 P.M._

_To: Sara ssidle@hotmail.com_

_Subject: You've gotta do something_

_            Sara,_

_            I don't mean to be rude, but I'm gonna skip the formalities here and just get to the point: you need to talk to Grissom. Ok before you scoff, I'm not talking about the normal stuff about him being distant or distracted. I'm talking about something physical and real-life._

_            I don't know how much you know about Grissom's past (I definitely don't know shit about it except for the poker thing), but apparently he was a smoker until about the time he started working here in Vegas (got this info from Cath). So obviously he quit, and he hasn't smoked for like, 15  years . . ._

_             . . . but he started again since you left. I'm not talking, "Oh, I'm stressed, let me have one cigarette to feel comforted"; I'm talking chain-smoking nicotine fiend. And he's snarky about it, too; nearly bit my head off when I told him he was gonna kill himself with the things._

_            Ok well that's not the point. The point is that we're all worried about him. I know that you know, and Cath knows, the dangers of smoking from firsthand experience, and it's just SO not good that he's picked this up again! I'm not blaming you or anything like that, seriously, it's just that you're the only person he'll listen to about most things and, well, we were kinda hoping you could talk to him about it. Maybe you can at least plant the seed in his head._

_            I know that you care about Grissom and what happens to him, so please just give it a try. Thanks, Sara – you know we all appreciate this._

_                                                                                    Warrick_

            Nope, she hadn't misread it. Grissom was smoking again. That hypocrite, after the stern lecture he'd given her a few years ago! "You're wasting your money and your body, Sara . . . have you seen what tar does to a pair of lungs, Sara?. . . You should quit now, Sara, before you do yourself serious damage." Hah, and now he was back to it.

            She wondered what had caused the reversal. He had definitely been anti-smoking three years ago, and she hadn't even seen him look longingly at a pack since then, but now suddenly he was chain smoking? There was something _very_ wrong with this picture.

            Checking the clock, she checked to see if she had enough time to deal with this now, before she had to go in to work for the night. She did. Flipping open her cell phone, she dialed.

            "Hello?" Grissom said, picking up after three rings.

            "Put it out," Sara said flatly.

            "Um . . . what? Sara? Is that you?"

            "I said _put it out_," she hissed into the phone.

            "What are you talking about?" Despite the confused tone he was affecting, she could still hear that slightly high-pitched quality of his voice that always indicated that he was feeling guilt.

            "Grissom, I'm serious. Put it out now, or I'm hanging up and plotting ways to make your life hell."

            There was silence for a few seconds, then a sigh. "There," Grissom said irritably, "I'm putting it out. I take it that someone ratted me out?"

            "Is it really out?" She knew it probably wasn't. "Grissom, I can practically still feel it burning. Put out the damn cigarette!"

            "Hmph. Fine." This time she could hear him exhaling the last lungful of smoke and the muffled crinkle of a cigarette being snuffed out. "Now answer my question: did someone rat me out to you?"

            "No, Gris, I used my latent psychic powers. Of _course_ someone from up there let me know, and before you ask, no I won't divulge my source. So now, tell me, what the hell is going on over there?"

            "Nothing is going on, Sara; why do you ask? Don't you have better things to do than harass me about my bad habits?"

            "Not when it's a bad habit you haven't been troubled with for fifteen years, then you suddenly pick up again with a vengeance."

            "I never should have told you about that; I knew it! That's the last time I share stuff with you about my past."

            Sara was stunned into silence for a moment. "Excuse me?" When there was no answer, she tried again. "What's wrong with you today, Grissom? Suddenly you've done an about-face from what you were yesterday. Tell me what's going on. _Now_."

            "Listen, Sara . . ."

            "Don't you 'Listen, Sara' me, Grissom! I had to listen to your damn lecture about the evils of smoking when I was quitting, and now you're damn sure going to hear mine now that you seem to have a death wish!" 

She paused a second, trying to contain her building anger, then continued, "But first, I want to know why you're so mad at me all of a sudden. What was with the e-mails, Gris?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said defiantly.

Sara ground her teeth. "Grissom, I am going to put this phone down for exactly five seconds, and when I pick it back up you'd better be ready to explain yourself to me." Without waiting for his answer, she dropped the phone onto her desk and counted off five seconds. Then, picking it back up and putting it to her ear, she said, "Well?"

"If you don't want to talk to me, Sara, then get off the phone. I'm sure you have better things to do, like ogle your CSIs."

She pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it for a second, then put it back to her mouth and said, "Uh-huh. And now we seem to be getting to the heart of the matter. You're jealous."

"I'm not _jealous_; that's ridiculous! I have no claim on you to begin with, so I have no right to be jealous."

Sara snorted. "Right, Gris. Sure. You know, you could've fooled me; I was kinda under the impression that you did have a claim on me, at least based on our e-mails this week."

Grissom was silent, and she was sure she could picture what he was doing: trying to compose his face into a semblance of normality, and hoping that it would help his voice do the same.  "Were you?" he finally said coolly. "That's not the impression your last e-mail gave to _me_."

"I assume that you're referring to the one I wrote introducing my team, and not the one I sent this morning, cursing you out?"

"Yes."

"You know, Grissom . . . you need to chill out. You really have to . . ."

She was caught off-guard when he cut her off with a strangled sound and growled, "I do _not_ need to _chill out_! I am perfectly chilled, thank you very much. What is it with you people?"

Oh boy. "Are you sitting down, Gris?"

"Why?"

"Because if you are, I want you to lean back for a minute and just relax. If you're not, I want you to sit down. You're going to pop a blood vessel at the rate you're going. Are you relaxing now?"

"Trying to," he answered grudgingly.

"Good. Thank you. Now, let's try to deal with this rationally, rather than screaming at each other, ok? Because we both know that I always win screaming arguments between us, and I figure I should give you a fair chance this time."

" 'This time'? Gee, thanks," he growled, but his voice was beginning to lose the sharp edge it had acquired during the past few minutes.

Sara sighed. "No more coffee for you tonight. Now," she said briskly, "please – notice that I'm saying 'please' – talk to me and explain what upset you so much from my last e-mail."

Grissom let out a deep sigh, and Sara felt a pang of sympathy. She could imagine how he felt; she had probably felt the same thing when he had talked so "objectively" about how "interesting" Lady Heather was.

"It sounded," he finally said slowly, "like you were purposely trying to make me jealous. With the way you talked about all those men, I mean."

"Grissom, I . . ."

"Wait, Sara, and let me finish. It sounded like you were trying to make me jealous with your descriptions, and then you segued right into flimsy reasons why you want to keep a distance between us, and . . ."

"No," Sara said shortly. "Quiet. Now it's my turn to talk. I was _not_ trying to make you jealous, first of all. I purposely corrected the impression that I was checking Sam out so you wouldn't think that I was. All I was doing was telling you what I saw and then what I inferred."

"Ok, fine," he said in a voice that clearly said that it wasn't "fine", "then how do you explain how you then launched into a page about how you aren't interested in being anything more than friends?"

Sara couldn't contain the disbelieving laugh. "Are you kidding me?"

"Um . . . about what?"

"About the fact that Gil Grissom, great Yoda of forensic detection, leapt to numerous conclusions by trying to read into what was said and using his _emotions_ to interpret them?"

Grissom was silent.

"Ok, so you're not kidding," Sara said after a few seconds. "Well, I'm telling you right now, get that idea out of your head. That is NOT what I said. You, Grissom, are 'getting too emotionally involved in this case'"

"Okay," he cut in, "enough with the gloating. So maybe I read just a little too much into it, but the facts are still the same. You're attracted to this Sam person, and his friends Mark and Jack, and you are only interested in being friends with me."

"Grissom. I'm going to try this one more time, and then I am going to come through the phone and beat it into your head with the butt of my gun: I did not say I was attracted to _any_ of my CSIs. I also did not say that I 'was only interested' in being friends. What I _said_, if you'd bothered to read it without prejudice, is that I'm jealous of Sam's hair, I like Mark's tattoo, and I think Jack likes Sophie. I said the part about being friends 'for now'," she said, emphasizing the last two words, "because _right now _I want to stick with being friends. Because I'm not ready _right now_ to give you control over me again."

"But I'm . . ."

" . . . Not using any control over me. I've heard it before, Grissom, and maybe I even believe it this time. But face it, that is what I _said_ in my e-mail, and that is what I _meant_ in my e-mail. You got upset about nothing, Gris!"

"Fine," he sighed. "Maybe I did. You obviously know that I've invested a lot of emotion into this relationship, and maybe I was jumpy, since it's the first time I've done that in a lot of years."

"So you admit that I'm right?"

"Stop rubbing it in, Sara, I'm serious. I don't appreciate it. Now, can I get off this phone and get myself ready for work?"

"Well geez, Gris, don't let me keep you or anything. I'd hate to keep you away from getting ready for work, seeing as how you just tried to convince me that I'm almost as important to you as work is."

"I didn't mean it that way."

Sara sighed. "I know. Go on, get dressed and make your coffee. I expect an e-mail later on explaining your idiocy in more detail."

Grissom, surprisingly, had no retort for that. "Okay, Sara. Good night, then."

As Grissom took the phone away from his ear, Sara suddenly remembered that they hadn't dealt with the issue that she'd called about to begin with. "Grissom!" she shouted, hoping the phone wasn't too far from his head yet.

His voice came back through the receiver after a moment. "What?"

"Put out the one you just lit up. And don't you dare light another one. I'll know if you do, and I will get you when you least expect it. You know it's bad for you, and maybe you started up again because you were trying to deal with stress over me or something, but things are cleared up now, right? At least partly?"

"Sure," he said noncommittally. 

"Then I better not hear about you lighting up again, because you have no excuse and I am going to be _really fucking pissed_ if you go and get yourself lung cancer over this shit! Got it?"

Grissom chuckled, relieved that they were back on normal territory: Sara telling him what was best for him. "Got it, Sara. I'll talk to you later."

"Damn straight," she said, and hung up.

"Well," Sara said to the wall, after contemplating it in silence for a few minutes, "that didn't go as bad as it could have. Good job, Sidle." She reached up and patted herself on the back, smiling for the first time in hours.


	17. Gossip

"What do you guys think?" Sara said quietly, looking at Jack and Sophie. "Was it really an accident?"

The two less experienced CSIs, both locked in thought, were silent for a few moments as they re-surveyed the scene. "I think . . ." Jack finally ventured, "that it could have been, but based on how the husband is acting, I doubt that it actually was." He nodded toward the man standing a few feet away, surrounded by three policemen who were all asking questions at the same time. "He just looks too suspicious to be innocent."

Before Sara could offer the suggestion of ignoring the emotions at the scene, Sophie answered Jack's idea with one of her own. "There's got to be more to it than that, Jack," Sophie said thoughtfully. "We can't get on the stand and say, 'Well yeah, the suspect looked shifty-eyed, so we bagged him.'"

"Well I didn't say that . . ." Jack began, looking guilty. Running a hand through his short hair, he tried again. "I was just . . ."

"Time out," Sara interrupted, knowing that this discussion was about to degenerate an argument. "Before you two get into it, let's get back to the point. Sophie, you say that there has to be something more. Do you have any idea what that 'more' could be?"

Sophie bit her lip. "Umm . . ."

"Oh!" Jack piped up, winning himself a dark look from Sophie. "I think I thought of something. The angle she fell at – I mean, the ladder, and the floor – and her position . . . well they're just weird. We could work out some regressions to confirm it, but I bet we'll find out that she couldn't have landed how she did without outside interference."

Sara smiled. "Good, Jack. That's exactly what I was thinking."

"If you knew it already," Sophie said, a little put out because she hadn't been the one to come up with a solution, "then why did you stand around asking us?"

"Because, grasshopper, you guys have to be able to do this too. What if I weren't here with you? You'd have to be able to read the scene the same way you just did." A strange look crossed Sara's face when she finished this pronouncement, and she tried to hide her the abashed grin that followed.

Jack looked at her, brows furrowed. "What's so funny, boss?"

"Nothing about the case . . . I was just remembering that I got almost the exact same lecture I just gave you, once upon a time." She shrugged. "Just goes to show, everyone has to start at the same place."

She was about to impart more wisdom to her CSIs when the finale of the William Tell Overture sounded from the vicinity of her hip. Slapping a hand down to the noise, she sighed. "Phone . . . hold those thoughts, guys." She checked the caller ID window on the phone and was immediately worried. Quickly, she hit the _send_ button and said, "Hello? Gris? Is something wrong?"

"Uh, no. No, nothing's wrong; why do you ask?" Grissom sounded puzzled, and she wondered if he didn't realize how strange it was for him to call her to begin with, let alone during work.

"Because you are calling me in the middle of both of our shifts. I also happen to be at a scene right now. So if it's not an emergency, why did you call?"

Grissom sounded unusually hesitant when he answered. "Well, I was just . . . things are slow here tonight, and I thought maybe they were for you too, so I figured I'd just call to chat . . ."

A skeptical look came over Sara's face. "You called me _during work_ 'just to chat'? What are you smoking, Grissom?"

He coughed. "Well, actually . . . that's the problem. I'm trying not to smoke anything, as per your directive, but it's getting a little difficult. I guess I called now because I figured that I'd talk to you instead of smoke. But if you can't talk, I understand . . ."

"Oh fine," Sara said, a small smile on her face, "just keep talking and make me feel a little guiltier. Do you maybe have a puppy I could kick?"

"Er, no. Sorry."

She snorted. "I kinda guessed that. Hold on a sec." Putting a hand over the phone, she motioned to Jack and Sophie, who had moved a discreet distance away. "Guys? Have you finished processing?"

"Well, no," Sophie said, "but we were just waiting for you."

"Go on and finish. Jack," she ordered, "keep an eye on her, you never know what could hurt a case or the CSI working it."

"Yes ma'am," he said and, with a snappy salute, took Sophie's arm and half-dragged her toward the house as Sara put the phone back to her ear.

"Jack!" Sophie said when he finally stopped just outside the door to the house. "Do you mind maybe not dragging me around like a caveman? Or would you rather I lie down so you can drag me around by my hair, because I'm sure we can dig up a club somewhere . . ."

Jack rolled his eyes, but let go of her arm. "Sorry. Didn't realize I was dragging. You ok?"

"Yeah," Sophie said, giving her arm a light rub. "Fine. Let's go on in."

Ten minutes later, they were both in the foyer, dusting for prints. Sophie used her forearm to wipe a smudge of the dust off her cheek, only succeeded in smearing it onto more of her face, and groaned. "Jack, you don't have a clean hand by any chance, do you? I've got this stuff all over my face and I'm still gloved."

"Hold on," he responded, and worked his way down the stairs toward her. "Where on your face? Oh," he said as he caught sight of it. "Yeah, I'll get it."

He was still wiping at a particularly stubborn streak when Sophie said, "So . . . what do you think Sara's on the phone about?"

Jack shrugged. "No idea. It didn't sound like she was talking to anyone from the lab, I know that. Maybe a friend?"

"That's what I thought at first too, but I just don't really think she'd blow us off at a scene to gossip with a friend."

"Yeah, good point." He was quiet for a few seconds. "Maybe someone from her old office needing help? Did you hear her say a name?"

"She said 'Grissom'," Sophie responded immediately. "Do you know of anyone named that, or with that as a nickname?"

"Mm-mm," Jack said, shaking his head, "not that I know of. But I definitely think it's a friend, or something along those lines. She sounded really worried at first."

"But then she said that this Grissom guy . . . or girl? . . . was calling during both their shifts. It must be someone from her old work."

"Would you sound that worried if I called you in the middle of shift?" Jack asked teasingly.

"Depends on if you broke something or not," Sophie shot back. "But really – you know what I think?"

"I bet I'm going to hear it whether I want to or not, so go ahead," he said resignedly.

"I think," Sophie began, then lowered her voice to just above a whisper, "that maybe she has a boyfriend on the Las Vegas team. Maybe she's doing a long-distance thing with this Grissom guy."

"But she hasn't mentioned anything like that to any of us here," he protested, shaking his head, "and she's pretty tight with Mark. Besides, she doesn't talk like she has a boyfriend."

"What would you know about talking like you have a boyfriend?" Sophie said, biting back a laugh. "You definitely don't have one, and you know I don't have one, so you couldn't be basing this theory on me . . ."

"I'm speaking in generalities, ok?" he said gruffly, and gave her shoulder a gentle push. "Silly."

Sophie smiled. "But my point still stands – you wouldn't know 'talking to a boyfriend' if it painted itself purple and danced naked on a piano, singing 'Talking Boyfriends are Here Again'."

Jack blinked. "That was the most nonsensical thing I have ever heard you say, Harrison. So you think she _is_ talking to a boyfriend?"

"Well . . . not necessarily a 'boyfriend,' in the sense of 'smoochie smoochie, I wuv you,' or anything, but it definitely sounded like someone who – well, just think about it. She established that it wasn't an emergency, which usually would result in her saying she'd call them back later, but instead of hanging up, she got rid of us and is, at least presumably, still talking to him." Sophie stopped abruptly and took a deep breath, replacing the air she'd just expended reciting that run-on sentence.

"Hmm," Jack sighed, "good point. But if he's not her boyfriend, what is he?"

"Maybe she has a crush on him."

"On a guy on the team she worked on? Never happen," he scoffed. "That would cause too many problems, and Sara's smarter than that. Besides, she voluntarily moved away from him; why would she move away from someone she liked?"

Sophie blinked. "Are you really that dense?" She reached up and knocked on the side of his head jokingly, then said, "Apparently you've never had a crush on anyone, because if you had, you'd know that you don't get a whole lot of choice in the matter."

"But . . ."

"Besides," Sophie continued, overriding Jack's protest, "when you sleep during the day and work with a team of people who share your interests at night . . . it's really easy to develop a crush on someone you work with, whether it will cause problems or not."

Jack raised his eyebrows. "Well it's not like anyone on _our_ team does that; I don't see why you think other teams would be that different."

Blinking, Sophie stepped back from her previous position almost nose-to-nose with Jack. "You're serious." It wasn't a question.

"Well, yeah. I mean, you don't see any of the guys hitting on you or Sara, do you?"

That startled a laugh out of her. "Jack, dear . . . Sam and Will both would kill to get Sara in bed. I think Mark might even be considering it. You need to start paying more attention to gossip."

"Yeah, but what about you?" he asked.

"I don't know," Sophie said, a slight challenge in her tone, "what *about* me?"

"You don't . . . I mean, there's no one who . . ."

He was narrowly rescued from the fist Sophie was preparing to send into his nose when Sara's voice, which echoed through the marble, rang out from the doorway.

"Hey! You two! What are you up to in here? Because it's obviously not cleaning up after yourselves," Sara said with a slow look at the black-dusted surfaces in the area.

"Oh," Sophie said, recovering quickly, "I got dust all over my face and Jack was trying to get it off before it migrated into my eye."

"Uh-huh," Sara said neutrally, and looked at Jack.

"Yeah," he said with a firm nod, "what she said."

Sara didn't believe a word of it, but she figured she'd give them a break this time. "Okay, then. You got it all, Sophie?" When Sophie nodded, Sara smiled. "Good. Then how about you two get in gear and either finish the dusting, or start cleaning up the dust?"

Both CSIs leapt to attention and began dusting with a vengeance, determined to escape the wrath they would face if Sara inferred that they had been talking about her.

Sophie couldn't resist indefinitely, though, and her patience finally broke on the drive back to the lab. "So," she said in what she hoped was a conversational tone, "who was on the phone before, Sara?"

Sara looked startled. "No one important. Why?"

"We were just curious," Jack piped up, causing Sophie to close her eyes and pray that he wouldn't say something insensitive. "Since you were on the phone for a while."

Sara gave them both suspicious looks. "No one important, like I said. Just someone from home." She paused. "Uh, Las Vegas, I mean." D'oh! How many times did she have to tell herself that Vegas wasn't supposed to be "home" anymore?

"From home," Sophie said cautiously. "That's nice. Did he have anything important to say?"

"How do you know it was a 'he'?" Sara snapped. Her eyes narrowed and she looked hard at Jack and Sophie again. "Never mind. I said it wasn't important, and it wasn't. You ought to worry more about your scene than who your boss is or isn't talking to."

"Right," the chastened pair muttered in unison.


	18. 133t 5p34k aka leet speak

**Katharine (from the Y! Group): **We gotta stop sharing these psychic brainwaves!

**Melindotty:** I think they make drugs for that sort of thing nowadays ;-)

**Michaela: **Major thanks for helping me get started with this chapter, and for the great suggestions you're always willing to provide!

*****

Grissom dropped his head into his hands and peeked through his fingers at the pack of cigarettes buried in his open desk drawer. "NO," he told himself silently. "Cigarettes are bad. You will not have one. Sara will be angry. An angry Sara is bad. You have learned that from experience."

"Yeah," whispered the devil that he could swear was perched on his left shoulder, "but Sara's not going to know if you do it in private. Go into one of the casinos or something, just have a quick smoke." His hand crept an inch closer to the pack, then stilled again.

"Don't you dare," spat the angel on his other shoulder, in a voice that sounded altogether too much like Sara's. "You're quitting for your own good as much as for Sara's approval. Even if she doesn't find out, you'll still know about it, and you'll feel just as bad having done it as you're feeling now, trying not to do it."

"Bull!" shouted the devil, causing Grissom to wince, even though he knew the voice was only in his head. "One cigarette is NOT going to bring about the end of the world, and you know it. You can have this one, then resume quitting; you've got enough willpower to do that, don't you, you wuss?"

"Why don't you call her?" the angel suggested. "It worked last time; she can talk you through it again."

The devil snickered. "Right, just call her in the middle of her shift again, take her away from a scene, make sure her coworkers think their new boss is a slacker. What a great way to show you care! I'm telling you, don't call her; this is your own problem!"

Grissom pressed his hands into his forehead and noticed that they were shaking ever so slightly. This wasn't working. Quitting was too hard; there was just no way he could do this. Honestly, it didn't matter that much. As long as he was vigilant, it wasn't like he was suddenly going to drop dead from lung cancer or anything!

His willpower finally gave up the ghost, and his hand shot toward the cigarettes, grabbing the pack with such force that he nearly crushed its valuable contents. Slipping them into his pocket, he glanced around to make sure no one was looking through the office windows at him. All clear.

Continuing to eye the corridor as he moved, he sidled out of his office and toward the back exit. He'd just slip outside the door and stand a few feet to the side; no one would see him.

The first mouthful of smoke felt rough, as though it was scratching at his throat, but he took another puff, then another, and the feeling soon evened out into the normal, smooth sensation. Ahhhh, it felt good. He didn't know why he felt like it was so necessary to quit, anyway, he thought, taking another drag. 

No! Wait! He _did_ know why he wanted to quit. He didn't want to die, and he didn't doubt that Sara would do him serious damage if he failed to quit. She might even track him down in the afterlife to exact her punishment. 

God, what was he doing? He looked at the cigarette in his hand in near-horror. This was BAD! 

With a jerky movement, Grissom stabbed the cigarette into the brick wall and rubbed it a few times. When he was sure it was out, he sighed and took stock of his body. His mouth tasted terrible, his clothes probably smelled like smoke, and with his luck, he'd burned a hole in his shirt somewhere. Hmm, he could chew some gum to fix the first problem . . .

The door suddenly jumped toward him as someone pushed it from the inside. "Grissom?" Greg's voice said tentatively.

Grissom took a moment to wipe a hand across his mouth (as though that would take the taste away, hah), then stepped toward the door and leaned his shoulder against the wall. "Yes, Greg?"

"Oh! Hey, I didn't think you were actually gonna be out here."

Grissom was recovering quickly from the adrenaline rush that almost being discovered had given him, and he said in a tone that was a good approximation of his normal one, "Well, I am. It's a beautiful night out here. Did you need me for something, or were you just checking on the whereabouts of everyone working?"

"No," Greg said hurriedly, "I was looking for you. Archie's got something to show you. It's kinda important. Well, it might be, at least."

Grissom stood up from his position against the wall and raised his eyebrows. "Something that 'might be' important?"

"Oh, just come inside, Grissom!" Greg said in exasperation. To his surprise, Grissom obeyed, and Greg lead him to Archie's lab.

Grissom crossed his arms and surveyed the room, seeing nothing that jumped out as critical to him or anyone else. "I hear you have something to show me, Archie?"

Archie glanced over his shoulder from his position hunched over the keyboard of his computer. "Hi, Grissom. Yeah, I was going through some of the lab's firewall logs 'cause I was bored, and I found some interesting stuff having to do with you." He waved a hand vaguely in Grissom's direction. "C'mere."

Grissom approached and bent over to read the screen Archie seemed so captivated by. "Um . . . what am I looking for?"

"You haven't been looking for another job or a new mortgage or anything lately, have you?" Archie asked, scrolling down slightly.

Ok, Grissom was intrigued now. Why was a tech asking him about this stuff? "No. Uh, not that I know of, at least. Why?"

"Because someone's been querying your records. That doesn't usually happen unless someone's doing a background check on you."

"Someone's doing a _background check_ on me? Like they had to do for my firearms permit?"

"Kind of," Archie replied. "A basic check, at least. Here, look." He pointed to a line of text on his screen.

Grissom looked. All he saw was a series of numbers and letters. "_Aug 10 14:51:57 ARG kernel: Packet log: input REDIRECT . . ._" he began to read, trailing off as the line got even more cryptic. "Am I supposed to know what that means?" he asked. "Because I have absolutely no clue."

"Yeah, it's a little complicated," Archie agreed. "I'll put it in plain English: someone's trying to get into our system and get a remote command line. I noticed it in here," he said, nodding toward the log on his screen, "and got suspicious, so I checked out the keystroke log from the server. Whoever it was, was trying to access your records. I haven't been able to tell yet whether they got what they were looking for."

"Someone tried to hack into our computers so they could find out about me?" Grissom asked, blinking. When Archie nodded, he asked, "Well, can you find out who it was?"

"Probably," Archie admitted, "though I'm not supposed to be able to see all this stuff to begin with, since I'm not the sysadmin. You guys promise not to give me up?"

Grissom and Greg both nodded eagerly. "You won't get any trouble from me," Grissom promised. "Now do it!"

Archie sighed. "Ok. Well, I haven't attempted to trace it yet, so let's try it the easy way first." He opened an internet browser window and typed in a URL. "Ok, we're on an 'nslookup' page. I'm going to give it the source IP from the log and see if it's got a registered name."

The two other men exchanged confused looks, then shrugged. "Sure," Greg said, trying to sound like he understood. "IP log. Yeah."

Archie laughed. "Not quite, but hey, at least you're trying. Ok, here we go," he said, clicking the website's "submit" button. A few seconds later, his eyes widened as he read the response. "This is weird."

"What?" Grissom said, unable to see the small type from his standing position behind Archie's shoulder.

"The IP's registered, all right. It's registered to another lab, but that makes no sense. Legitimate lab queries go through the regular channels, they don't try to hack in."

"Which lab?" Greg asked, cocking his head to the side. 

Archie narrowed his eyes, reading the information on his screen, and smiled slightly. "Hey Gris, is there something going on that you want to tell us?" 

Grissom looked at him blankly, so Archie continued. "The IP traces back to the Bergen County, NJ lab. Isn't that where Sara is?"

******

"Well?" Sophie asked, her lips only millimeters away from Will's ear.

Will, who had been concentrating hard on the computer monitor in front of him, jerked his head up, missing Sophie's by a hair's breadth. "Jesus, Soph, is it necessary to sneak up on me like that? If I die of a heart attack, you're never getting your answer."

Sophie assumed a pleading expression. "Oh, no, Will; you're just such a god, I would never try to scare you to death. I'll do _anything_, please just do this for me . . ." She let her voice trail off and grinned, aware that the sound had carried out into the corridor and that people out there must have heard what she said. Will would be getting a lot of ribbing about it later, she figured.

"Hmmph." Swiftly switching among a black screen with a command line, an FTP program, and his browser, Will worked for a few more seconds. "Ok, done. So," he began, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head, "I got everything you asked for. It's in your home directory; I'll show you how to get to it in a minute. I don't think anyone caught us, but I'm not sure."

"What do you mean 'no one caught us'?" Sophie said with wide eyes.

"Well, I didn't exactly go knocking on their front door and asking if I could please see a supervisor's personnel file, you know," he said, feeling a vague sense of amusement at her statement. "I had to get in through a back door, so to speak – one that they didn't know was there. There's a chance that they have someone who actually knows how to read a firewall log and interpret what I did, but it's pretty unlikely."

"Whoooaaa, there," she replied, holding up a hand as if stopping traffic. "You mean you, like, 'hacked' into their system? Illegally?"

"Yes, Sophie," Will said, getting exasperated. "I 'hacked' into their system. You asked me to find you the information, you must have known that you couldn't just call them up and ask for it. You have what you wanted, so don't complain."

"I wasn't complaining," Sophie said indignantly. "I was just . . . trying to get it straight. So I know what I have to deny if anyone asks."

"Does Jack know you asked me to do this?"

"Well, I sort of mentioned it to him in passing. Kinda. In a shortened form."

"In other words, 'no.' He doesn't know."

"He'll be cool with it, Will, I promise. Now come on and show me the records!"

"Ah, ah, ah," Will said, shaking a finger at her. "First you have to give me the reward you promised."

"Oh, no way," Sophie snorted. "I was joking about that; I'm not setting you up on a date with Sara, no matter how much you beg." When Will made to protest, she put a hand over his mouth, ignoring his attempts to bite her. "_No_, Will. Pick another prize."

He pried her hand off his mouth and sighed theatrically. "Oh, fine, let me think." He paused for only a second, then said, "Ok. If you won't hook me up with Sara, then you have to go on a date with me."

Sophie blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Me William. You Sophie. William take Sophie on date," Will said in his best attempt at a Tarzan voice. "Come on, Soph, it's not like I'm asking you to have my baby or anything. I just want to go out with a pretty girl, is that too much to ask?"

Sophie was silent for a minute, weighing the pros and cons of accepting his invitation. True, she didn't get out much, and it would be nice to hang out with a friend outside of work . . . but on the other hand, there was just no way that she was going to ever feel like 'that' about Will Hennessy. And it might give Jack the wrong impression; might make him think she wasn't interested. But . . . it wasn't like Jack was rushing to her door to ask for a date; why not give him a subtle hint that he had been wrong about the 'no one on our shift wants to date each other' thing?

She smiled in defeat. "Ok, you win, Willy-boy. But take note: this is an outing between friends, not a date where you're going to get laid, or kissed, or anything else like that."

"Aw, man," Will whined jokingly, then shrugged. "Agreed. I won't try to get you into bed or anything . . . although I can't guarantee that after a day with me, you won't be trying to get _me_ into bed," he added with a roguish grin.

Sophie laughed and punched his shoulder. "You just keep telling yourself that, dude. Ok, so now show me the information you found on whoever 'Grissom' is!"


	19. Making plans

When Will and Sophie walked into the team room, the rest of the team, with the exception of Sara, were already there, lounging in their usual positions.

"'Sup?" Sam asked, eyeing the pair upside-down from his position hanging off the side of the couch. "You guys got anything good?"

Mark put down the book he had been reading and rested his chin in his hand. "What's this about, anyway?  I was just getting to a good part," he said, gesturing to his book.

"It'll still be there when we're done talking," Will assured him. "This is juicy, anyway – you're gonna want to hear it."

Jack and Walter exchanged worried looks. "What, exactly, is 'it,' Will?" Jack asked cautiously. "Sophie?" he tried when Will didn't answer him.

"Well, I was curious about the guy we heard Sara talking to, so I asked Will to do a little research."

"_What_ guy Sara was talking to?" Sam said incredulously.

Jack pinned Sophie with an incredulous look and said, "You actually decided to invade her privacy? What did you do?!"

"I didn't invade her privacy," Sophie contradicted. "Maybe I invaded _his_ privacy just a little, but _he's_ not the one who's my friend to begin with. Ok, so anyway," she said, turning away from Jack and focusing on the other men, "here's the story. At a scene the other day, Sara took a phone call that wasn't an emergency and wasn't about work. Jack and I heard her call the guy 'Grissom,' and we decided that it was a guy from Las Vegas, someone she might be interested in."

The men gave her skeptical looks and Sophie correctly inferred that they thought she was putting a girly, romantic spin on things. "Don't look at me like that," she protested. "Jack was there too and he had the same idea."

All heads swiveled toward Jack, who gave Sophie an "I'll get you when you least expect it" look. "Yeah, she's not making it up," he finally admitted. "But I have no idea what she just went and did with Will."

"Well," Will said, picking up the narrative, "Sophie asked me to do a little digging and find out what I could about this guy, so I went through their system looking for records. Turns out that he's . . . What?" he asked, noticing the raised eyebrows around the room. "It's not like I uploaded a virus to their system or something, I just went in through a little security hole!"

"Shush," Sophie ordered. "Let's just skip to the good stuff, ok?" Will nodded after a second, and Sophie said to the group, "Turns out that 'Grissom' is Gil Grissom, the entomologist. You guys've probably heard of him on the job at some point, because I know I have.

"Well anyway, he's 47 and he's the supervisor of the night shift at the Las Vegas lab, so I was right about that part. There wasn't anything wonderful in the records – I mean, it's not like there was a file saying, 'Gil loves Sara' or anything – but we found out that he's a decorated employee and is considered to be one of the best in the business."

"I got his address and phone number, too," Will added, "and we checked out where he lives through a satellite map service; it's a nice place. Looks like he makes plenty of money."

Jack leaned his head back against the wall and sighed. "But you didn't find out anything having to do with him and Sara as a pair?"

Sophie shrugged. "Not really. There were three employee evals that he filled out on Sara, and they were all favorable, but again, nothing conclusive."

"So you went to all that trouble and found jack?" Sam asked with a smug smile.

"I'll find something," Sophie said. "I'm determined."

*****

Sara's desk phone rang just as she was getting ready to head home. Giving it a nasty look, she snatched up the receiver and let out a brusque, "Hello?"

"Ms. Sidle, this is Anna at the front desk. I've got a man on the phone who's asking to speak with you about 'something important.' That was all he'd say. Do you want to take the call?"

"Um, sure," Sara said with a mental shrug. "Transfer it over." She returned the phone to its base so the secretary could enter the necessary key code, then picked it up immediately when it rang again. "Hello."

She recognized the voice that issued from the receiver, but could make no sense of what it said: "You could just ask, you know."

"Grissom? That you?"

"Yep."

"Um, what could I 'just ask' about? Try using complete sentences."

"You could have just asked me whatever you wanted to know about me, Sara. You didn't need to do it illegally."

Sara tried to process that sentence, but could think of no context that applied. "Ok wait. Back up. I could have found out _what_, and what the _hell_ do you think I did that broke the law?"

Grissom paused. "I don't know what you found out," he said with less confidence, "but breaking into a government computer system is definitely illegal."

"Ok, stop right there," Sara said firmly.  "Have you switched to smoking something stronger than cigarettes? I didn't break into any computer. I wouldn't know how even if I _wanted_ to!"

"You, uh . . . you didn't?"

"No!"

There was silence. Seconds ticked by, and finally Grissom said, "You didn't break into the computer system here."

"Right."

"Well, someone from your lab did! Archie found a break-in in the server logs. Someone using a computer registered to the Bergen County lab got into the system, and all they looked at was files on me. Personnel, old evaluations – evaluations of you, might I add."

Sara's jaw tightened. "Shit."

"What?"

"I had two CSIs with me when I talked to you last time. I bet they decided to do a little investigation on their own, for whatever crazy reason. Listen, can I call you back?"

"Uh, yeah. I mean no! No, don't hang up yet. I have other stuff I want to talk to you about."

Sara raised an eyebrow to her empty office and leaned back in her chair, stacking her ankles on her desk. "Other stuff? Like what?"

Grissom sighed. "I caved."

" 'Caved'? What do you . . . oh, Gris, tell me you didn't buy another pack!"

"Well, uh, no. Technically, I had a leftover pack."

"Grissom."

"I know! I know, Sara. I tried to talk myself out of it, but, well, it didn't work."

"Why didn't you call me? I talked you out of it last time you got a craving, why didn't you try that again?"

She could picture the pensive look that must have been on Grissom's face. "I didn't want to bother you," he admitted. "I interrupted you at a scene last time, and look at the havoc that seems to have caused."

"Hey, I'm the supervisor now, I get to delegate at scenes. If I hadn't had time for you, I wouldn't have talked to you. Seriously."

"Thanks, Sara, really. But I think . . . it's just not working. Maybe I'm too old to quit again. Maybe I have a death wish. I don't know what it is, but I just don't think I'm going to be able to do it."

"Ohhhhh no. You're not getting off that easy, Grissom." Sara stared at the ceiling as an idea jumped into her head. "I'm hanging up, ok? I've gotta check out a few things about you and the computer stuff. I'll call you back when I get home in an hour or so, ok?"

"Well, I . . ."

"Bye!" Click.

*****

"No way, Soph," Will was saying heatedly when Sara found him in the team room.

"Will! I'm paying you for this with my pride anyway, why can't you just suck it up and fini . . ." Sophie's voice trailed off as she caught sight of her boss leaning against the doorway.

"Go on, Sophie. You were saying that you had already paid Will to snoop into my past?"

Will and Sophie exchanged looks, then both started talking at once. 

"I didn't ask him to . . ." 

"Wasn't my idea . . ."

"Shut it," Sara snapped. "You guys want to cut the bull and explain to me why you hacked into the Las Vegas computers? Or maybe why you were digging through the records of only one person?"

Silence.

"Ok, then maybe you want to start with what made you think I wouldn't find out about this?"

More silence.

Sara shrugged. "Okay, you don't have to explain if you don't want to. You can just go clean out your lockers."

"What?" Will asked incredulously.

"I said, 'You can go clean out your lockers'. You not only misused department resources, but you also used those resources for illegal purposes. Both of those actions are _major_ no-nos in the lab's rule book, so unless you guys are prepared to explain your action to me, I'm going to have to fire you."

"You're kidding," Sophie said.

" 'Fraid not. I'm not going to bend the rules far enough to bury what you did, especially not to help people who just violated _my_ privacy. So you either start talking now and convince me that you had a good reason, or you're gone."

Will sighed. "It wasn't my idea, I swear."

"Will!" Sophie said, giving him an indignant look.

"Well, it wasn't! I'm just telling the truth." Turning his attention back to Sara, he continued, "Sophie came to me and said that you were talking to someone on the phone at a scene and the person's name was 'Grissom' and it was probably was a 'he' from where you used to work."

"And?" Sara said with a raised eyebrow.

"And I asked him if he could find information on whoever it was," Sophie said, giving Will an angry jab in the ribs. "To make sure everything was ok. You know, that he wasn't stalking you or anything."

"You're a bad liar, Sophie," Sara said calmly. "You just couldn't stand not knowing who it was, could you?"

"Well . . . that too. I'm sorry, ok? But really, I did want to make sure that you weren't talking to a serial killer or anything. So yeah, I asked Will to check him out."

The corners of Sara's mouth rose slightly. "And what did you learn from checking 'Grissom' out?"

"He's definitely not a serial killer," Will said. "We know you worked with him in Las Vegas and he was your boss, and we know that he's gotten a lot of commendations from the city. And that he gave you good evaluations." He shrugged. "Other than that, we didn't learn shit."

"Mmm-hmm, that's what I expected. You guys have a lot to learn if you want to become effective snoops." Sara paused, then added pointedly, "Which I suggest you don't. It tends to piss people off juuuust a little."

Neither Sophie nor Will had anything to say to that, and they simply nodded. "Okay," Sara said after letting them absorb her displeasure for a few seconds. "You guys can go get ready to leave – but do me a favor and hang around another half hour or so?"

"Why?"

"Because I'm asking you to."

"Hey, I got nowhere better to go," Will said simply, and left the room with Sophie trailing behind him.

*****

Twenty-five minutes later, Sara hung up the phone and smiled. Peering through her half-open door and into the team room window, she noted with satisfaction that Will and Sophie had, indeed, stayed and waited for her. "Guys!" she called across the space. "Come on in here for a minute, then you can go home."

When the two miscreants stood in front of her desk a few seconds later, Sara grinned. "I've got good news for you guys."

"You're not going to fire us?" Sophie tried hopefully.

"Well, that too. But that wasn't what I was going to say."

"Okay, then what were you going to say?"

"I was going to say, Sophie, that you guys are going to get your wish. You're going to be able to find out as much about Grissom as you want."

No response from either of the two.

"Um . . . why?" Will finally asked. "That doesn't sound like it's as good as it's supposed to sound."

"It's fine," Sara said lightly. "You guys are going to be able to snoop to your little hearts' content," she added smugly, "because Grissom is going to be taking some vacation time in Vegas and coming here. To see this lab, among other things. And you two, since you seem so desperate to learn about him . . . you two are going to be in charge of him while he's hanging around here."

Will made a show of pushing shut his hanging jaw. "He's just . . . coming here? For fun?"

"I haven't actually told him about it yet," Sara said eyeing the calendar on her desk, "but yeah. He's coming here. Monday."

"Monday?" Sophie asked, somehow no longer sounding surprised. "Like in two days?"

"Yep."


	20. Vacation? Impossible!

"Don't be absurd, Sara. You know I can't just drop everything and disappear to New Jersey," Grissom said later that day, wishing the phone he was holding were something he could afford to throw.

"Of course you can," she retorted. "You've got to have racked up, like, three whole years of vacation time in the time you've been in Vegas. All you have to do is use some of it."

"Whether I have the available time or not, I can't leave the lab on such short notice. Believe it or not, I do contribute to the work that's done here."

"I didn't say you don't, Gris. But you know Catherine is capable of handling things while you take a vacation. She'd die of happiness if you offered her the opportunity!"

Grissom grumbled something indecipherable. He didn't particularly relish being told that he was expendable despite his years of work in Las Vegas. "Fine," he said. "Maybe Catherine could take over. But that doesn't mean I want her to. I have cases open, Sara; I can't just leave!"

"Ok," Sara said, sensing victory, "first of all, I already talked to Cath and she's more than willing to cover for you. She's . . ."

"You called her?" Grissom asked indignantly. "You two just decided to leave me out of the loop and cook up a plan of your own that happens to involve using me as a pawn?"

"Chill out, Grissom. We're not 'cooking up' any 'plan." I just called her and asked if, in her opinion, you could take a week or two off there. She said it wouldn't be a problem on her end.  I'm trying to be helpful," she pointed out, "not trying to make you my pawn . . . although that would make for an interesting situation."

"And just how do you think you're helping me by springing this on me?"

Ah, yes, she could nearly taste the victory. "You aren't having any luck quitting over there, even though everyone, including yourself, wants you to. You seem to do better at it when you have access to me, therefore I'm bringing you out here so you have enough 'access' to kick the habit. Again."

"Don't rub it in," he said absently, sighing. "Sara, you know I'd like to come visit you, but I have responsibilities here, and I can't . . . besides," he interrupted himself, "there's no guarantee that if I spend the money to come out there, I'll come home a non-smoker again."

"Who said you were spending any money?"

". . .  Pardon me?"

"I'm the one who just got a bigshot job and a raise, right? I'll spring for it."

"Let me see if I have this right," Grissom said slowly. "You want me to take a vacation across the country and use you to help me quit smoking . . . and you also want to pay for it?"

"Uh-huh."

"Nuh-uh."

"Why not?" Sara asked. "It's not like I'm going to be asking for sexual favors in return or something!"

A moment of ringing silence followed that statement. "I mean, uh, it's not like I'm going to hold it over your head that I'm paying to bring you out here." Sara silently cursed herself, wondering why her subconscious had just decided to slip that comment in as though it wouldn't be noticed.

"Sara, I can't allow you to pay for me," Grissom said finally. "It wouldn't be right. Besides, just because you're being paid more doesn't mean you shouldn't be saving the excess."

"I don't _want _to save this particular excess. I want to use it for this. I'm not kidding, Grissom, this is what I want to do."

"I won't be party to a waste of your money like this. You have better uses for your money than me."

Sara groaned. "Look at it this way, Grissom. Either you accept it and come out here, or I'm going to bust the money on something far worse than you. Like cigarettes," she added as a sudden flash of inspiration hit her. "For myself."

"You wouldn't."

"I would. For real. Hey, if you're determined to go to smokers' hell, I might as well go with you, huh?"

"No!"

"Too bad, Gris. It's my money, and I'm going to use it how I like. You can either help me use it well, or force me to waste it."

"Sara . . ."

"Listen, I want to get some sleep. Either give me an answer now or forever hold your peace." She grinned hugely, knowing that she'd backed him into a corner he couldn't escape from.

Grissom sat back in his chair, trying to create a coherent thought. Hadn't he told Sara that he didn't think well when things were sprung on him with no warning? She knew he wouldn't be able to give her a well-thought-out answer this way. That was probably why she'd done it this way in the first place, the little sneak!

Not that she'd left him much choice anyway, even if he'd had a week to think about it. "You're serious," he tried again. "You're really going to start smoking again if I don't do what you want."

"Well," Sara said, "when you put it that way . . . yes! Give it up, Grissom. You have no choice but to come up here. Hey, I'll even see if there are any roach races going on in the area, ok?"

"Okay, fine," Grissom said in a defeated voice. "I can probably make room in my schedule for four or five days there, in maybe a week or two."

"Not happening. I am _so_ not giving you that long to think of a way to get yourself out of this. You're coming on Monday."

"Monday? Okay, well, that's almost nine days, I guess I can get myself organized by then."

"No, Gris," she said, barely holding back her laughter, "not that Monday. _This_ Monday. The day after tomorrow."

"There's no way I can do that!" he protested. "Like I told you, I have things, and cases, and stuff to do, and then there's the lab, I'd have to write out some plans for Catherine to follow before I go, and besides, it's impossible to book a flight with only two days' notice anymore . . ."

Sara said nothing, only listened to him run through his list of progressively weaker excuses. "Not a problem," she said when Grissom had finally run out of ideas. "You're already booked on a flight out here. I took care of it; all you have to do is dig out your passport and pack a bag."

"Sara!"

"Don't even try it, Grissom. Your 'boss' voice doesn't work on me anymore; you're not my boss, remember?" When Grissom didn't answer her, Sara sighed. "Ok listen. I just really want you to come out here, ok? I want to make sure you quit, and I want to see you. It's been almost three months. Please, just do what I'm asking you?"

She'd said "please," he thought. Sara never said "please" when she was already getting her way. "I suppose I could put everything together quickly," he acquiesced, disliking the thought of Sara having to beg him for something. "But please, let me pay for it."

"Uh-uh, Gris. My treat. Tell you what," Sara suggested, "I'll let you pay for dinner one night while you're here."

Grissom knew when he was defeated. "Okay, Sara, you win – this time. Tell me what you have planned for me."

*****

"What do you mean, you're 'going away for a while'?" Nick asked, staring at Grissom with wide eyes. "You never go away. And if you do, you make sure we all have six months notice and explicit orders."

Grissom looked up from the desk drawer he was searching. "Oh, come on, Nick. I'm not as bad as that. Last time I went away, if I recall correctly, there was nearly World War Three here because I _didn't_ leave explicit instructions. Sara and Warrick were ready to kill each other, and I think you were getting close to killing both of them."

"Well, but still. You never go away! Come on," Nick prodded, "just tell me what's going on. I won't spread it around."

"No, Nick."

"Fine. I'll go ask Catherine." Nick turned and headed for the office door.

"She doesn't know either," Grissom said, fighting the urge to laugh at Nick's indignation. "And neither do Warrick, Greg, or Brass. I'm not telling anyone here, Nick, because I'm going on _vacation_, and I don't want to be bothered by the real world."

"It's not like we ever call you pointlessly anyway," Nick protested over his shoulder, still facing the door.

"You would if you knew where I'm going. You'd be curious. And that's all I'm going to say on the matter," Grissom added as Nick's face took on a crafty look.

"Fine," the younger man said huffily as he walked out.

As soon as Nick was gone, Grissom went back to searching his desk. He knew he had a thank-you card buried in there somewhere, he explicitly remembered buying it five years ago to give a friend. Needless to say, the friend had never received the card, and it should still have been in Grissom's desk.

"Whatcha looking for?" Catherine asked from the doorway, startling him.

"Geez, can't a man get any peace in his own office anymore?" Grissom grumbled, standing up to face her. "What do you need, Catherine?"

"Just wanted to see how you're making out on packing and everything. Since you're leaving in the morning and everything."

"I'm doing fine, thank you," he said shortly, then gave her an expectant look. "I'll talk to you in a week or two."

"Oh, that wasn't all I had to say," Catherine said brightly.

"Never is," Grissom said under his breath, sitting down to listen to whatever lecture she was about to give him.

"Hey, nothing big," Catherine said with a shrug. "I just wanted to see if you've got something to give Sara when you get there. A housewarming gift or something."

Grissom started. "What makes you think I'll be seeing Sara?"

"I talked to her, remember? I was part of the 'evil plot'?"

"Oh, right. That."

"Yeah. Well anyway, like I said, I wanted to check if you'd remembered to buy her something."

"Uh, no. Should I have? Is that the polite thing to do?"

"Um, yeah, Grissom. Man, I don't know how you got where you are without knowing stuff like this!"

"By being able to do my job, Catherine. No one cares if I know all the niceties as long as I solve the crimes that need to be solved."

"Yeah, well," Catherine said with a wry smile, "Sara's not a crime, at least not the last time I checked. Trust me, get her something. Not anything big, just a little something to let her know you're grateful. Or to make her think you're grateful, if you're still not."

"Oh," he said, feeling better, "I'm going to give her a card. That's what I'm looking for right now."

"A card's a good start, but you've got to have something besides a piece of paper," Catherine said sagely. Gesturing for him to follow her, she said, "Come on. I'll take you shopping. That way you'll know you're giving her something woman-approved."

Grissom wasn't terribly enthused at the idea of going shopping with Catherine, or anyone else for that matter, but he knew when to do as he was told. Slamming the drawer shut, he stood up and joined her in the doorway. "Let's buy a new card, too – I don't have the slightest clue where mine went."

"Good idea," Catherine said, giving him a pat on the head. "Let's go."


	21. Departure and arrival

Grissom stopped in the narrow aisle of the plane and checked his boarding pass again. The row he was looking at was clearly labeled as "Row 6," but his ticket told him he was in the fifth row, not the sixth. "Uh, excuse me," he tentatively asked a bored-looking flight attendant, holding out his boarding pass to her, "is this a typo? I don't see a 'Row 5'."

"Up past the galley," she informed him shortly. "Last row, first class. Would you please move along, sir, you're holding up the line."

Grissom blinked, but allowed himself to be pushed forward into the first class section of the plane. Taking another hard look at his boarding pass, he verified that it still said that he was in seat 5D. Having made sure of that, he checked the label above the row he was standing in. It was Row 5, and seat D was an aisle seat.

What the . . . Sara had booked him a first class seat? There must not have been anything else left; he would have to pay her back for it. Slipping into the row, he glanced around the empty seats surrounding him and pulled out his cell phone, dialing Sara's number from memory.

"Hi, you've reached Sara Sidle," her recorded voice informed him after five rings. "I can't answer the phone right now, so please leave your name, number, and the time you called. If this is Grissom, I know you probably want to yell at me, so leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as I see it. Thanks!"

So she wasn't answering her phone. That was unusual for Sara, and he could only assume that she was screening her calls to avoid hearing his lecture. When her voicemail beeped at him, he said, "This is Grissom. Do you realize that you booked me in first class? Well, if you do, I know it's two or three times as expensive, so I'll write you a check for the difference as soon as I get there. They're going to be closing the cabin doors soon, but if you're screening your calls, as I'm sure you are, call me back within the next ten minutes and it should be fine." He hung up without saying goodbye, thinking too hard to realize it.

Five minutes later, his phone beeped, informing him that he had a new text message. Curious, he navigated to it in the phone's unfamiliar "messaging" menu, expecting an advertisement. To his surprise, it was from Sara.

"Yes, 1st Class," it informed him. "Did it on purpose. Don't whine, not letting you pay me back. Enjoy the flight."

Well, he thought as he settled himself in the seat, he'd see about that. There was a way to talk Sara into taking the money; he'd just have to figure out what it was.

*****

He didn't know what he'd expected to find when he emerged from the gate at Newark Liberty, but it definitely wasn't a beaming woman throwing herself into his arms. Still, he managed to drop his bags and catch her with one arm. "Uh . . . hi," he murmured tensely, feeling slightly embarrassed at the scene they were making.

"Hi," Sara answered, pulling away from him with an unreadable look on her face. She could feel how tense he was with her touching him. "You've only got the one little suitcase?" she asked briskly.

Grissom was silent for a moment, trying to interpret her sudden shift into all-business mode. "Yeah," he said slowly. "That and my carry on."

"Ok, let's go then." She turned on her heel and began walking toward the escalator that, a sign informed her, led to the baggage claim and exit.

"Sara?" he said to her retreating back.

"Yeah?" she responded without turning around.

"I'm glad to see you."

Stepping onto the moving stairs, she turned to face him. "Oh yeah? That wasn't exactly a display of how glad you are to see me, back there."

"Sorry. I don't do scenes, you know that."

"Yeah, well . . . oh, fine," Sara sighed. "Moving on . . . how was the flight?"

"Besides the fact that you tricked me into First Class?"

"Yeah," she said with a slight smile. "Besides that."

"It was very nice," Grissom said. "My seat went back so far that it was almost horizontal, and there was no one in front of or behind me. But I still want to pay you back for the difference, if not the whole thing."

"No, Grissom."

"Yes."

"No! Come on," Sara said. "I can barely fit in economy seats, and you're taller and broader than me. I didn't want you to suffer like I did on the way out here." She shrugged. "I'm not taking any money from you. And if you try to sneak it to me somehow, I'll just mail it back when I find it."

Grissom scowled. "It's not right."

"Forget 'right' for once," she said with a smile. "Just imagine how sucky it would have been to fly here with someone in your lap and your knees jammed into your stomach, and enjoy the fact that you didn't have to deal with it."

He nodded reluctantly. "You're right, it was much nicer. Ok, I'll just say 'thank you,' then. And I'm going to take you out somewhere really nice to thank you."

"I already have somewhere in mind," Sara said with a grin. "I think you'll like it." Stepping off the escalator, she led Grissom to a set of sliding doors. "I'm parked out here," she told him, gesturing toward the parking garage across from them. "Ready to go?"

"Sure," Grissom said, stepping through the doors.

*****

Grissom gave the building in front of him a wary look. "I'm . . . staying with you?"

Sara cocked an eyebrow. "Um, yeah. Is that gonna be a problem?"

"No. No, not exactly. I just thought – is this where your brother lives?"

"Oh, no," she said with a laugh. "This is my apartment building. I moved out of Jeff's house, finally. I've been here . . . hmm . . . three days now. Since the day before I called you."

"Oh. I had thought . . . You don't want me to stay in a hotel?"

"Hotels around here are crazy expensive. The Meadowlands are, like, a ten-minute drive from here, so all the sports tourists and stuff stay there. I figured it would be easier and cheaper to just put you up here." She paused. "Unless you mind."

"I don't 'mind,'" Grissom said slowly. "I just thought that you would be uncomfortable with it."

Sara laughed. "Grissom, I might be uncomfortable if you crawled into my bed in the middle of the night, but I'm not going to freak out over the fact that you'll be on the futon." She was amused to see Grissom turn bright red at this.

"Enough talk, ok?" she said, breaking the silence after a few seconds. "Let's get inside and get you settled."

Grissom followed her wordlessly, struggling to put the image of crawling into Sara's bed out of his mind. She'd said it would make her uncomfortable, he reminded himself – so why was he so tempted to do it anyway?

Sara stopped in front of her door and narrowly missed being knocked over as Grissom pulled to a surprised stop behind her. Swinging the door open, she gestured him inside. "After you."

*****

The inside of Sara's apartment surprised him, Grissom decided that evening as he waited for Sara to change into her work clothes. He had expected something utilitarian. Something sensible and simple, like her personality. Instead, her apartment was a sort of shrine to Sara's life. The walls were covered with picture frames holding pictures that ranged from what he assumed was her high school graduation portrait to a picture Catherine had snapped of him while he wasn't paying attention. The latter picture, he noted with pleasure, occupied the center of her kitchen wall – a spot she would see regularly.

"Ready," Sara said, coming up behind him. Noticing his distraction, she asked, "What are you looking at?"

"Just observing. You have a lot of photos here."

"Yeah, I guess I do," she said, ducking her head nervously. "It's kinda the way I catalogue my life. I'm not a diary sort of person, but I want to remember things. So I get pictures of them." Eager to change the subject from what she considered to be an embarrassing hobby, she tugged on his shoulder. "Ready to go? I'm dressed, obviously."

"Sure," Grissom said, watching her out of the corner of his eye as they walked to her car. Was Sara angry at him for looking, or did her pink face mean she was embarrassed by his observations? "So, uh . . . what are you going to do with me tonight? At work, I mean. While you're working." Damn, he could have phrased that so much better!

"Well," Sara said, giving him a curious look as they paused at a stop sign, "I was going to give the kids a break and let them all go out alone tonight while I get you acquainted with the lab and everything."

" 'The kids'?"

She grinned sheepishly. "Yeah. That's kinda how I think of them. They're all younger than me, and I really do spend a lot of time teaching them . . . that's just how they've grouped themselves in my mind."

"Interesting," Grissom noted, staring out the window at the building Sara was about to park in front of. "Is this it?"

"Yup. Welcome to beautiful Hackensack, New Jersey," she said ceremoniously. "Are you underwhelmed yet?"

"It's, er . . . nice."

"Not nearly as engaging as Vegas, huh?" she asked with a grin. "Well, come on in and I'll introduce you to everyone."

As they walked through the metal detector at the entrance of the building, Sara said, "Oh! I forgot to tell you about your keepers."

"My . . . what?"

"Your keepers. Sophie and Will – they're the ones who broke into your files, and as their penance, they're in charge of you when I'm not around. Feel free to give them a hard time, or to go all 'Zen master' on them if they need it."

"Who are these people, again?"

"You'll see," Sara said with a mysterious smile. "You'll see."


	22. Are they or aren't they?

**A/N**: ok, I know you guys hate me for being so inconsistent with my updates…I apologize, but life is being mean to me lately, and the writing isn't coming as naturally as it usually does. So yeah…don't hate me too much, okay?

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Sara's staff really was quite young, Grissom realized when Sara led him into the team room. None of them could have been a day over thirty-five. And none of the men, he also noticed, had graying hair like he did.

"Grissom," Sara said formally, "I'd like you to meet my CSIs. Guys, this is Gil Grissom, the one you've been so curious about. He's up here for a vacation."

A chorus of "hi" and "hello" answered her. "Good. Grissom," she added, pointing one finger toward Sophie and another toward Will, "that's Sophie and Will, the ones who messed with your records."

The two younger CSIs murmured their greetings but, much to Sara's surprise, neither launched into a nervous explanation.

"So," Sara continued, "the deal for tonight is this: I was originally planning on keeping Grissom here with me and sending the rest of you out on cases, but I decided that would be kinda boring. Besides, when I arrived in Las Vegas, Grissom immediately threw me into working with other people, and turnabout's fair play. So Gris, if you're willing, I want you to go out with Sophie and Jack to their . . . hmmm . . ." She consulted her clipboard. ". . . to their smash-and-grab."

Grissom's eyebrows lifted slightly and he gave Sara a questioning look, but when she just shrugged, he said, "That's fine. As long as you promise that they're not going to give me the third degree."

"Guaranteed," Sara said, giving Sophie a repressive look. "And if they do, call me and I'll take care of it."

"Ouch!" Will laughed from his seat on the kitchenette's counter. "Watch your back, Soph."

Sophie's eyes narrowed as she looked at him. "Shut up."

Jack, demonstrating that he did indeed have better political skills than Grissom ever had, stood up and held out a hand for Grissom to shake. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Grissom. Or is it 'Doctor'?"

"Just call me Grissom. I'm not a 'title' sort of person," Grissom assured him as they shook hands.

"Okay then. Nice to meet you, Grissom. I'm Jack DiLuca."

Grissom drew in a subtle breath. So he would be working with the man who Sara thought was so similar to him, the one she wanted to match up with . . . Sophie. She'd also put him with Sophie. Oh, wonderful – she'd stuck him in the middle of a love triangle or something. "Sara," he said under his breath, "can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Later, Gris," she replied cheerfully. "If you're going to ride with them, you'll have to get going ASAP." To her relief, Grissom gave her a dirty look but obeyed.

*****

"That's him?" Sam asked incredulously as soon as Grissom was out of earshot.

"Yeah," Sara said shortly. "That's him. You got a problem with that?"

"Umm . . . nope."

"That's what I thought."

"So . . ." Mark said cautiously. "When did he arrive?"

Sara, realizing that she'd have to pacify the masses with some amount of explanation, joined Sam on the kitchen counter. "He got here today. We didn't have time to go out or anything, so essentially this is his first activity here."

"He seems nice," Walter offered. "What hotel is he in?"

Time to change the subject. "Okay!" Sara announced, cutting off Walter's thought. "Time to work, guys! Walter and Sam, I want you two out on a suspected arson. Here's your slip. Mark, take Will to this attempted burglary and try to keep him under some semblance of control."

Smirking, Mark stood up and gestured for Will to join him. "Come on kid, I'm cracking the whip. Move 'em out."

Mark didn't follow his partner out of the room, though. He waited until Walter and Sam had left, then turned to Sara. "He's staying with you, isn't he."

"What's it matter to you, Mark? Go solve crimes and stop worrying about my personal life."

"Okay, not trying to snoop," Mark said, raising his hands in surrender. "I just wanted to tell you that if things get weird and you don't want him sharing your place, you can send him over to me, 'cause I've got a guest room. Just in case."

"Thanks for the offer, but I'll be fine. Seriously."

"Ok, Sara. Just keep it in mind. I'll see you later tonight."

"Sure."

*****

Grissom sat in the passenger seat of the lab's Expedition, silently observing the car's other two occupants. He hadn't ever realized it before, but he wasn't used to silence between CSIs. In Las Vegas, every ride to a scene was a scene of its own, full of laughter, arguments, and the occasional tickle war. Not that he participated in such foolishness, of course, but, well . . . Sophie and Jack were just staring through the windows, not even talking about the case they were on their way to.

The silence finally got to him, and Grissom had to say something. "So . . . have you two worked here long?"

"Not really," Sophie said with a shrug. "Jack's been here a lot longer than I have."

"Ah," Grissom responded. Apparently they weren't feeling too talkative. Time for another topic. "How do you like working with Sara?"

To his surprise, he got more than one sentence as an answer. "Oh, she's great!" Sophie exclaimed. "Our old supervisor was just _old_. You know, DNA hadn't even been useful for almost all of his adult life. He wouldn't even use e-mail! Sara's so much better. I mean, she's younger, and she knows all the new stuff really well, and she, well . . . she's willing to hang out with us. Like, to teach us, but without making us feel dumb." She paused. "Well, by 'us' I really mean 'me.'"

"No," Jack said much more calmly than Sophie had, "that applies to me too. She really is a good boss. Did she learn it from you?" he asked Grissom.

Grissom thought about that for a second. "Well, I helped, I guess, since I was around when she was acquiring her skills. But I assure you, Sara's her own person, and her talents are her own."

Before Sophie could stop herself, she let out an "Awwww."

"Sophie!" Jack hissed.

"Well it's _cute_, you have to admit it."

"I beg your pardon?" Grissom asked confusedly. "What's cute?"

"She's just a little overexcited, Grissom," Jack said before Sophie could embarrass herself any farther.

"Jack!"

"Don't dig yourself any deeper, young lady."

Sophie began to turn red. "Don't call me 'young lady,' asshole! I'm not that much younger than you; it's not like you're my father or something!"

"Shut UP!"

"You know . . ."

"Hey!" Grissom interrupted. "Lower the volume a little, please?"

Sophie and Jack immediately subsided, both looking contrite.

"You can keep fighting," Grissom explained. "Just more quietly. Actually, listening to you fight reminds me of home. Las Vegas, I mean. When Sara was there. She and Nick used to fight all the time . . ." Realizing that he was beginning to sound wistful, he stopped.

"Admit it Jack, it is too cute!" Sophie crowed triumphantly.

"Maybe I could arbitrate this debate," Grissom suggested, "if someone would just explain to me what you're fighting about?"

That shut them up. "Um . . ."

"I take it that this involves Sara, then?"

"Sort of," Sophie said slowly.

Grissom only raised an eyebrow expectantly. 

"I just think it's cute how you and Sara talk about each other, that's all," she said defensively. 

"The way we talk about each other? Sara talks about me?"

"Of course she does," Jack said with a sigh. "Aren't you two dating or something?"

"Er . . . no, we're not. At least, not the last time I checked."

*****

"Really?"

Sara sighed and checked her watch. "Really, Mark. We're not. And why the heck are you and Will back so early, anyway?"

"You sent us to an attempted burglary, Sara. What did you expect? We picked up glass shards, took fingerprints, checked for blood . . . it really doesn't take that long."

"Ok, fine. But why are you in here bugging me?"

"I'm not 'bugging' you; I just asked whether you and Grissom are a couple. It's a reasonable question."

"It's not a reasonable question!"

Mark slumped farther into his chair. "Ok, chill out. It _is_ a reasonable question, because Sophie, Jack, and Will raised the issue a long time ago, and now he's here, and he's staying in your apartment. It is _definitely_ fair to ask if you're dating him."

"I just told you," Sara growled, "that I'm not. Not that it's any of your business, or anyone else's here."

"Whatever, Sara. You don't want to talk about it; that's fine. Just don't act like we have no right to wonder."

Sara groaned. "We're not dating, ok? Does that answer your question?"

"Ok, listen," Mark said gently, standing up to move closer to her desk. Leaning a hip against it, he ran a hand through his hair. "I'm just asking, Sara. As a friend. I know you might be shocked to realize this, but you have people here who worry about you."

"I don't need to be worried about, Mark," she said tiredly. "I'm an adult and I can take care of myself. I've been doing it for a long time now."

"I get the feeling this is an argument you have a lot."

"Well I don't know why everyone seems to think I'm some fragile teenage girl who needs to be protected!"

"Maybe you do, every now and then," he said with a small shrug. "You know you were looking at him like you wanted to prostrate yourself at his feet, right?"

"I was not," Sara protested.

"You were. Come on, Sara. I didn't come in here to start a fight with you; I just wanted to, I don't know, make sure you know you have five guys here who would be more than willing to forcibly remove him from your vicinity if he hurts you."

Sara snorted. "If he's bugging me, I can do that for myself. But, well . . . thanks. It's kinda nice to know I've made friends here."

"You dork," he said with a teasing smile. "You know we love you. Come on, group hug."

Sara couldn't keep herself from laughing at the lack of a "group" as Mark wrapped his arms around her in a brotherly hug. "Oh, come on, your hair's getting in my mouth, Mark!"

A cough came from the doorway, and somehow Sara wasn't surprised when Grissom's voice asked dryly, "Are we interrupting something?"


	23. Whips and chains and doghouses, oh my!

"Yeah," Sara said, pulling away from the hug and facing Grissom, Sophie, and Jack. "As a matter of fact, Mark and I were busy having wild kinky sex all over my office; how 'bout you come back later?"

Trying not to laugh, Mark looked pointedly at himself and Sara – both of them fully clothed - and deadpanned, "Yeah, we're kinda naked here, so give us a chance to put away the whips and chains." 

"Let's not talk about whips and chains, okay?" Sara said sharply. She was glad to see that Grissom had caught the reference, as evidenced by the flush rising on his face.

"Ok," she said after a moment, "obviously you weren't interrupting anything except Mark hugging me, so can we move the circus somewhere other than my office? I think the max occupancy of this place is, like, three."

Sara watched the group file out of the room. When everyone but Grissom, who was bringing up the rear of the line, was out of the room, she said, "Grissom, stay here. I need to talk to you."

"Oh?" he asked in a deceivingly airy voice.

"Yeah. Sit," Sara ordered with a wave of her hand toward the chair opposite her desk. When Grissom was sitting, she walked around and perched on the corner of her desk. 

Resting her elbows on her thighs, she leaned over and looked him in the eye. "What was that?"

"What? The case you sent us on?"

"No, Grissom. What was that whole 'are we interrupting you as you do something illicit with one of your CSIs in your private office' bit?"

"I didn't say that."

"Just about!"

"But I didn't. You're reading too much into my words."

"Oh come _on_, Gris. I'm sure everyone in the room picked up on the insinuation; you might as well have tattooed it on your forehead. So seriously, what's the deal?"

Giving her a persecuted look, Grissom leaned back into his chair. "I just asked if we were interrupting anything, since it looked like you and, uh . . . Mark . . . were occupied."

Sara snorted. "Oh, give it up already! I know you don't get out much and all, but are you seriously unaware that one of the most important parts of a friendship is _trust_? 'Trust,' like when you see me doing something and don't automatically jump to the worst possible conclusion?"

"I trust you," Grissom said indignantly. "You should know that by now."

"Yeah, you trust me with _evidence_. You trust me with covering your ass at a scene. You don't trust me with anything that involves emotion, though. We already went over this in the e-mails, Grissom. I'm not interested in going in circles."

"I'm not arguing about this, Sara," Grissom said calmly. "If you don't think I trust you, then I can't make you believe it."

"Whatever," Sara said with a shrug. "Your loss."

"My loss of what?"

Smiling slightly, she cocked her head to the side. "You tell me." When Grissom didn't answer after a second, she sighed. "Look, we still have a few hours till shift is over . . . why don't you go hang out with Will. Teach him a lesson or something; you like doing that."

"I'd rather not, Sara. Why don't you go on page and we'll get an early breakfast or something?"

"I'd rather not," she echoed him pointedly. "You might think I was hitting on the waitress. Go bother someone else, Grissom; I have a pile of reports to sign off on."

"Fine." He stood up, looking hard at her. When she still hadn't said anything after a few seconds, he sighed and headed for the door.

"Hold on," Sara said just before he turned the doorknob. 

"Why don't you make up your . . ." Grissom's admonition was cut off by Sara's lips as they made gentle contact with his. It was over in the space of a second and he was left standing a foot from the door, confused but pleased. "Why'd you . . ." he began.

"Think about it, Grissom," Sara said quietly. "You still believe I'd be kissing Mark when I've been wanting to kiss you like that for years?" Without waiting for an answer, she pulled open the door and pushed him through it. "Go. I'll talk to you later."

*****

Catherine's voice sounded tinny as it came through Grissom's cell phone. "She kissed you?"

"Yeah, she did. Not kissed, like make out," he added, stressing 'kiss.' "Just kissed."

"Uh-huh." Catherine smirked into the phone. "So she didn't kiss you, but she kissed you. Makes perfect sense now. But, um . . . why are you calling me? Shouldn't you be, like, declaring your undying love to her?"

"I'm not going to . . .! Ok, wait. Listen. The reason she kissed me is that she's mad at me."

"What, you pissed her off so she tied you to a chair, whipped you, and gave you exactly what you've been dying to get? I know you were into the whole domination thing last year, but isn't it time to move on?"

"No! She did _not_ tie me up. Geez!"

"Ok, so what happened? No, before you tell me that – you realize that there's going to be a point where you're not gonna be able to call me every time you get confused, right? You might try talking it over with Sara before calling me and begging for help."

"I'm not begging you for anything," he said indignantly. "I just called to . . . chat."

"Right. Whatever you say, Gil. Now tell me what happened."

"Well, I kinda walked in on her and one of her CSIs . . ."

"Whoa," Catherine interrupted, "don't go any farther. Are you telling me that you think Sara's hooking up with one of her coworkers? If you are, you just need to give up and come home, because you'll obviously never know her."

"Huh?"

"Unless the world is now spinning upside-down and in the wrong direction, there's no way Sara would do that. She's been after _you_, Grissom. For years."

"Are you born with this?" Grissom groaned.

"Born with what? The ability to understand other women? Uh, yeah."

"No, born with . . . well yeah, understanding other women. But you just used almost exactly the same words she did after she kissed me."

"It's a woman thing. And think about it this way – I didn't just kiss you, so it's not like there's a pattern emerging here."

"You're not being helpful, Catherine."

"Well _gosh_," she said, her sarcasm nearly oozing through the phone, "I'd better start doing my job and giving you advice on your love life; god knows I get paid so much money for it. How 'bout first you tell me what you're asking me to help with, and _then_ maybe I can offer some assistance."

"I don't know what I'm asking, exactly. I suppose it's whether I'm in trouble with her or whether I'm forgiven. I mean, she told me to get the hell out, then she kissed me, then she pushed me out of her office. I may not be the too sharp when it comes to women, but I'm pretty sure that those were mixed signals."

Catherine burst out laughing. "Serves you right! The girl is dishing you up in your own sauce; way to go Sara!"

"I didn't call you so that you could mock me, Catherine."

"No kidding."

"Just answer my question," Grissom snapped. Then, thinking better of angering the one person who could help him, he said more politely, "Please?"

"You want me to tell you if the fact that she kissed you means that she's not angry at you for insinuating that she'd do that? Sorry, Gris, but I couldn't tell you that with a straight face; you're in the doghouse, kiss or no kiss."

"Then how do I . . .?"

"I don't know!" Catherine exclaimed in exasperation. "Listen, Grissom, I am not Sara. Got that? I am not her, I cannot read her mind, and I do not telepathically know her motivations and needs. I'm doing the best I can, just using my common sense, but if you want to know this stuff, you _have_ to start asking her instead of me."

"I can't just ask her these things," he protested.

"You're gonna have to. It's this thing called a 'relationship,' and to keep it up the two participants need to actually communicate every now and then. Rationally. Without yelling at each other or running off to call a friend. This ain't _Who Wants to be a Millionaire_, Gil."

"Yeah, but . . .but I'm supposed to know this stuff already," he muttered in a humiliated tone. " I'm a forty-seven year old man, for god's sake; am I just supposed to turn to her and say, 'Oh, by the way, I don't understand you, so if you could just give me a translation of everything you say and do, that'd be nice'?"

"Yup," Catherine said brightly. "That would work. Alternatively, you could try just listening to her when she gets angry or upset or whatever. I think you'll find that – gasp! – Sara tends to speak her mind, and you'll find out what she's thinking pretty quick."

"I . . . hmm. I, uh . . ." Grissom stammered as he began to understand what Catherine was saying. But talking to Sara was so much more . . . intimidating . . . than talking to Catherine. When he talked to Sara, he had a vested interest; he couldn't screw up with her like he felt free to do with Catherine!

"Listen, Gris – as much as I'd love to stay on the phone and listen to you say absolutely nothing, I've got to get going. I promised to take Lindsey out for an early breakfast before school."

"Oh . . . uh, okay. Thanks for helping me, Catherine."

"Hey, all I did was tell you what you need to do to help yourself. Now I get to sit back and see if you actually take my advice for once, or if you're just gonna dig your hole a little deeper."

"It's not like I'm wallowing!"

"Uh-huh. Sure. Gotta go. Talk to you later!" Catherine chirped, snapping her phone shut.

Grissom gave his now-silent phone a disgusted look. Well, that certainly hadn't helped as much as he'd hoped it would. Of course he had to talk to Sara, but what was wrong with getting some advice from friends on the side? Didn't all men do that?

"Grissom?" 

He spun around at the sound of Sara's voice. "Er, yeah. Here."

"So I see," Sara said with a teasing smile. "Come on, ten minutes to the end of shift - let's get out of here."


	24. She's all talk

"So what'd you do tonight?" Sara asked Grissom as they drove back to her apartment. "Besides arguing with me."

"Well, not much. You sent us on a smash-and-grab; you know there's never anything momentous there."

"Of course, but I assume you didn't just sit in the car and sulk while Sophie and Jack handled the scene . . . so tell me what you _did_ do."

"Okay," he said slowly. "I actually did try to stay out of their way, though, since they're the ones who're getting paid for it. Pretty much did the grunt work – dusted for latents on the glass, swabbed for blood. You know the drill."

"You're kidding," Sara said, fighting the urge to turn away from the road and stare at him. "You didn't help them out?"

"Of course I helped them! I just said that I dusted and swabbed."

"Yeah, and that's all you did? Gris, you're incapable of just watching people who know less than you without offering up 'hints' on what they missed and how you think they ought to do things."

Grissom scowled. "You think I'm that bad? That I can't allow someone to work in peace?"

". . . without at least looking disapproving?" Sara asked. "Yeah, I do think you're that bad. I don't think you realize you do it half the time," she added conciliatorily, "but you do. That's why I called you Yoda. You know, always trying to impart your wisdom."

"Well I . . ." He shrugged. "I don't know, then, if I 'helped' them or not. You'll have to ask them." A pause. "You really think I'm that bad?" he asked again in a voice tinged with worry.

"Not 'bad,' Gris," Sara said as she swung the car into her building's parking lot. "I'm not saying that you're a bad person or anything. That's just . . . your teaching style. You wait for someone to make the mistake, then explain to them how not to make it."

"That doesn't make me feel any better," he sighed. As he stepped out of the car, he looked over the roof at her. "Am I _really_ that bad?"

"Grissom," Sara warned. "Stop asking. I just said that you're not 'bad' at anything, so calm down and come up with another topic of conversation."

Grissom was silent as they made their way into her apartment, wondering again why people always waited until after the damage was done to warn him of his shortcomings.

"So?" Sara asked, shrugging off her coat. "Did you come up with another topic?"

Grissom nodded, leaning one shoulder against the wall. "Yeah. Why don't you tell me what it was that went on in your office today?"

Sara's mouth fell open and she blinked. "I can't believe you're asking me that again! I though we already established that, first off, you're an idiot for thinking I'd do anything with Mark, and second off, nothing happened!"

"Er . . . that wasn't what I meant," he said.

"Huh?"

"I was referring to what happened after we established all that. When you, uh . . ."

"Kissed you?"

"Yeah. That."

"Oookay," Sara said. "What do you want to know about it?"

Grissom took a deep breath. "Sit."

Sara backed up to the couch and sat, looking at him quizzically. "Why? Am I in trouble or something? Are you going to tell me you're actually a woman or something freaky like that?"

"No," he said with a firm shake of his head. "Definitely neither of those. I just want to put a little space between us so that if you try to kill me, I have that extra second of reaction time."

"Grissom. I am _not_ a homicidal maniac, believe it or not. I don't plan on killing you in the near future, so why don't you tell me what's going on here?"

God, why did life have to be so hard? He knew Catherine had been right about his needing to talk directly to Sara, but well . . . did she really _have_ to be right about that? "You kissed me."

"Yes," Sara said calmly.

"Why?"

"I told you that after I did it. I did it to demonstrate that I don't have any interest in Mark."

"I need more information, Sara. I, uh . . . talked to Catherine after I left your office . . ."

"Why does that not surprise me?" Sara muttered under her breath.

"I don't know, why doesn't it?" Grissom shot back.

She shook her head. "Just keep talking."

"Okay well, uh . . . oh, yeah. I talked to Catherine after I left your office, because I was a little confused by your behavior . . ."

"So what else is new?"

Grissom gritted his teeth. "Would you mind keeping the smart comments to yourself until I'm done talking?"

Sara cocked her head to the side and studied him for a moment, then shrugged. "Sure." Patting the area of couch next to her, she added, "Sit."

He nervously lowered himself to the couch, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I talked to Catherine after I left your office and I asked her whether the fact that you . . . did that . . . meant that you weren't angry with me for my earlier, uh, assumption."

"Oh?" Sara said, eyebrows raised. "And what did Catherine say I thought?"

"She didn't," Grissom sighed. "That's the problem. She said that she couldn't read your mind, and that I'd have to just suck it up and ask you directly. Which, if you haven't noticed, I'm very uncomfortable doing."

"No kidding."

"Sara . . ."

"Yeah, sorry. You have more to say, or can I start in with my 'smart comments'?"

Shrugging slightly, he said, "Go ahead, I suppose. But hey, give me a break?"

With a hint of a smile on her face, Sara said, "Don't worry, I'm not planning to kick you out of my house or anything. But . . .hmm. What exactly do you want to know? Whether I stopped being mad at you when I kissed you, or whether I'm still mad at you now?"

"Both, I guess."

Letting out a deep breath, Sara leaned backward into the couch and drew her legs up toward her, hugging them to her chest. "The only reason I kissed you was because I was mad. You weren't listening to me talk, so I tried something that was sure to shut you up. So no, the kiss didn't mean I wasn't angry. Whether I'm still angry now . . . well, I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt."

"Benefit of the doubt?" Grissom asked, furrowing his brows. "What exactly does that mean?"

"It means that, assuming you've learned your lesson about acting like I sleep around, you're forgiven. But if you do it again, I'm going to know that it wasn't just a momentary slip because of jealousy. And trust me, I won't be pleased if I find that out and know that you really don't think too highly of me."

"I think very highly of you," he said earnestly. "Otherwise I wouldn't be here."

"Okay, well, let's keep it that way."

Grissom nodded. "Okay."

"Good."

"Right."

"Soooo . . ." Sara said after a moment. "What do you want to do now?"

Grissom checked his watch. "Hmm . . . it's 8:30 now? Why don't we get something to eat?"

"Here, or out?"

"I don't feel much like going out, if it's ok with you," he said. "Do you have food here?"

"I have some things," Sara said thoughtfully. "What do you want?"

"Whatever you have is fine. Cereal?"

"You like Life?"

Grissom blinked. "It's preferable to death."

"The _cereal_, Gris. Life – the little cinnamon-sugared squares?"

"Ohhhh . . . yes, I like that, thanks. What are you having?"

Sara opened a cabinet and found the cereal, handing it to him over her shoulder. Pensively surveying the remaining contents of the cabinet, she shook her head. "Nothing – I'm good. Not really hungry."

"Did you eat lunch during the night?"

"Yeah, Gris," she said, rolling her eyes as she grabbed a carton of milk out of the refrigerator. Handing it to him, she sighed. "I'm not starving myself; I'm just not hungry right now. I only eat after work about half the time – usually I just want to fall into bed."

"That's not normal for you," Grissom said worriedly.

Sara retrieved a bowl from another cabinet and a spoon from a drawer. Handing them to him, she smiled slightly. "Not like you've ever come home with me after work, so you don't exactly have the best point of reference as to what's normal for me."

Grissom waved the cereal box he was holding at her. "That may be true, but I know how you are at work, and you're very seldom tired. It doesn't seem right for you to be too exhausted to even feed yourself."

"I didn't say I was exhausted. I just said I was going to go to bed."

"What's the difference?"

"I could stay up if I wanted to, Gris. I just don't want to. Maybe I'm just getting old, ok?"

"You work too hard."

"Look who's talking," she said with a snort. "The guy who had to be blackmailed into taking a vacation. Just eat. You know where my bedroom is; if you need anything just wake me up."

Grissom gave her a considering look, but didn't protest any further. "Okay, Sara. Sleep well. Will you get me up tonight?"

"Yeah," Sara said, already turning away from him. "No problem."

Grissom watched Sara's back as she walked the length of her living area, unaware that he still had the cereal box dangling from his hand. It really didn't seem good that Sara was so tired. But then, he thought, perhaps she wasn't that tired at all, and just wanted to get away from him.

Not that that boded too well either, he realized. He ought to just eat his breakfast and follow Sara to bed.

No, not follow her to bed . . . _to_ bed . . . to _bed_. Nothing like that! Just follow her in going to bed, he meant. Different beds. Not her bed. Because that would make her "uncomfortable." She'd told him that as soon as he'd stepped off the plane. Nope, not following her to bed. Just happening to go to his futon, while Sara was already in her own bed.

Exactly.

The cereal didn't look so appetizing anymore, he thought with a sigh, and he hadn't even poured any into the bowl yet. That was the problem with talking to Sara – he always ended up more confused or, in this case, more stressed than when he'd started. Were relationships supposed to be like that?

Wait . . . Did they have a relationship to begin with? Catherine had called it a relationship, but then, she'd also said that she didn't know what was in Sara's mind. How did one tell if they were in a relationship, anyway? Was it something you discussed with the other person, so as to get a concrete answer?

There was no way he was going to get any food down his throat now – he was too busy mentally defining all these terms that he hadn't had to worry about for so long.

Placing the milk back in the fridge and the cereal, bowl, and spoon on the counter, he made his way into the living area, where his futon was located. As much as he hated to disturb Sara, he realized as he assessed the space, he was going to need a blanket.

He hoped she wasn't already asleep. If she was, maybe he could find a blanket without waking her up. He knocked quietly on her bedroom door. When no answer came after a few seconds, he decided that she must already be asleep and that he'd see if there were any extra blankets in plain sight. Gently turning the knob, he poked his head in the door.

He didn't know who was more surprised – Sara, just poking her head through the neck of a t-shirt, or him, presented with a full-on view of Sara's naked form.

Grissom didn't say a word, just backed out of the room and slammed the door behind him.


	25. The naked truth

Sara emerged from her bedroom a few minutes later, in a full set of pajamas and a robe. Grissom, still trying to figure out what he should be thinking about, didn't look up at her from his position sitting on the futon.

"Hey," Sara said softly. "You ok there?"

Grissom looked up but determinedly fixed his eyes on a point over her right shoulder. "I should probably be asking you that question." He paused to think for a moment. "I'm, uh, sorry. I knocked, but I didn't think I heard anyone answer. I thought you were already asleep, so I was just going to come in quietly and find a . . ."

"Whoa," Sara said, holding up a hand to stop him. "Stop panicking; I'm not going to start screaming about how you traumatized me. Hell, for all I know you've seen me like that before in the locker room at work."

"I didn't . . .!"

"Shove over," she interrupted him, motioning for him to make room for her on the futon. Grissom moved to the far side of it, teetering over the edge.

Sara sat, then touched his arm. "You can move back over. I'm serious, it's not like I'm afraid of you now."

"Maybe you should be."

"What, because you're a ravening beast who's going to jump me now that you've seen me naked? Got news for you, Gris – if you were going to do that, you'd have done it already. I'd be pinned on my bed or something."

Grissom flinched and moved an inch further away from her. "Don't talk like that, please."

"You're really upset," Sara said wonderingly. "What the hell? If anyone's going to be upset here, it should be me."

"I just grossly violated your privacy," Grissom muttered. "Wouldn't you be worried if you did that to someone?"

"Ok well first of all, I don't feel grossly violated, ok? And second of all, right now I can't think of a guy I know who would be traumatized to have me see him naked – except maybe you. Probably you. So no, I wouldn't be too worried if I were in your position."

Grissom didn't answer her, focusing his attention on his shoe rather than her.

"And I already told you that you don't need to be worried about me. I'm fine with it. There, problem solved!"

"Okay," Grissom said, a challenge evident in his voice. "Then why don't you tell me why you're so okay with it? Why aren't you worried about me being . . . whatever. Ravening."

Sara ducked her head to the level of his, placing it squarely in his line of sight. "I'm not worried about that, Grissom, because if you wanted that, you could have had it at any time during the last few years. You didn't, so I can therefore deduce that there's no impending danger of you changing your mind now."

"What's in my mind and what I do are two different things."

"No kidding. In that case, why don't you try telling me what's in your mind, and maybe then I'll be able to think of a way to straighten you out."

"I can't do that," he said repressively.

"Why, because you think I'll be offended that you still have the image in your mind? Listen, not to be intrusive or anything, but I figure you probably haven't seen a naked female – one who was alive – for at least 5 or 6 months. I'd be surprised if you weren't still seeing it."

"Sara," Grissom ground out, "would you stop prodding? I really don't want to discuss this."

"Yeah, well, we just had a big discussion about how you need to start talking to me instead of Catherine, and not talking about it at all isn't an option because you know that if you don't talk about it with someone, you'll just start feeling even more guilty about this, and then you'll pull away again and we'll be back at square one. Which, might I add, YOU made the move to get past."

Grissom gave in and finally met her eyes. "What exactly do you want to hear me say, Sara? Yes, I saw you undressed. Yes, it wasn't at all an unpleasant sight. No, I'm not going to attack you now because I saw you like that."

"We already established that stuff," she said, shifting her position so she was almost facing him. "Why don't you try just venting. Let me put it this way – if Nick, or Mark, or even Will, had been the one to walk in on me, I think I can safely say that they wouldn't be sitting her like you, all kinds of panicked. Nick would probably be embarrassed, Mark might feel guilty . . . but they wouldn't retreat into themselves like you're doing right now. So why are you so different?"

He sighed. "We already talked about this."

"Let's talk about it again."

"Maybe I'm reacting so differently because I think of you differently, then. I already told you about my . . . feelings about you. I don't think it's so wrong for me to be more concerned about it than one of your friends if he were in my position."

Sara shrugged. "You might be surprised by who's interested in what. I'm not saying that to make you jealous," she added hastily, "but I'm just saying that you might not be as different from every other male in the world as you think. You _are_ male, Gris, even though you seem to be trying to ignore that fact."

"Why are you so ok with this?" Grissom hissed, whipping around to glare at her. "Don't you have any modesty?"

Sara drew back in surprise, blinking. "I . . ." She swallowed. "I'm not listening to this." Without waiting for Grissom's response, she shoved away from the futon and ran to her bedroom.

There was silence for a long minute as Grissom tried to process what had just happened.  "Sara?" he finally called. "I'm sorry, ok? Come back."

Sara's "No!" was followed by the sound of her door shutting.

Grissom waited, listening, but no more sounds came from the bedroom. What had just happened? Well, he knew what had just happened, but . . . what was it about his last question that had sent her running, when she'd seemed amused by the rest of his protests?

Well there was no way he was going to be able to sleep now!

Grissom took a moment to compose himself, then stood up and walked slowly toward Sara's room. "Sara?" he asked, knocking. "Sara, you know I'm not going to turn this doorknob now, so please just open the door so we can talk?"

"Why don't you just open it yourself?" she answered from behind the door. "Since I have no modesty, you can be sure I won't mind, even if I'm prancing around naked."

"I didn't say I thought that," Grissom said through the door.

"Might as well have."

"I didn't."

"Does it matter?"

"Yes!" he exclaimed. "It damn well does matter, Sara. I'd like to talk this out if you'd just open the door!"

Sara's voice came from directly on the other side of the door. "You never want to talk anything out, Grissom. I'm so sick of this."

Grissom paused, regrouping. A list of possible endings to this confrontation ran through his mind, and few of them were good. He might as well just take the direct route. Reaching out, Grissom turned the knob and opened the door, childishly satisfied to her it thump into Sara on the other side.

"You're dressed anyway," he announced as he walked through the doorway.

"What if I'm not?"

Grissom raised an eyebrow. "I'm looking at you and you have clothes on. That indicates to me that you're dressed." Taking her arm, he cajoled, "Please talk to me. I'm trying to master the whole discussion thing, and I can't fix my mistake until I know what I did wrong."

Sara sighed. Pulling her arm out of his grasp, she walked over to the bed and threw herself onto it, facedown and arms over her head. "Okay, talk," she muttered into the blankets.

"Why did you get so upset at what I said, all of a sudden?"

"Because, Grissom," she said flatly, raising her head a little, "you once again displayed how much you don't know about me. You, once again, made it sound like I must naturally parade around naked – with all the men that I'm obviously kissing in my spare time."

Grissom started to deny it, then thought better of it. After a moment, he said slowly, "I don't think those things of you. I don't know why I keep throwing them up at you, because I believe – I know – that you're not like that. You wouldn't kiss other men, or walk around naked to get attention."

"Do you really believe that, Gris, or are you just saying it because you know it's what you're supposed to say? Because every time we have this fight, you end with saying you don't believe I'm like that . . .  and then the next time we fight you start right up again." 

Sara put her face back into the blankets, not really expecting a sensible answer, and when she felt the bed next to her give, she fought the urge to look up.

Grissom assessed his position on the bed, then slowly lay down, copying Sara's position, a foot away from her. When she didn't respond, he slid his hand up to touch her arm. "I'm trying, Sara. I am."

"You're not trying hard enough."

"_I'm trying_. I can't do any more than that." He groaned. "This is why I stayed away from you for so long. I knew we couldn't do this."

"Couldn't do what?" Sara asked sharply, turning over and studying his face. "What exactly do you think we're doing? Because the last time I checked, we were just trying to have a civil conversation, not planning our life together or something."

"We were discussing – we started out by discussing – your modesty or lack thereof. I don't think that's something you talk to everyone about."

"You know what?" Sara said, squeezing her eyes shut. "This was a bad idea. I don't know why I asked you to come here, anyway."

"You know what?" Grissom echoed harshly. "Maybe you shouldn't be so hard on me, how about that? If you're so obsessed with me, why are you so quick to declare that things won't work?"

Sara was silent for a moment. "We suck," she finally muttered.

Grissom blinked, unsure that he'd heard her correctly. "What?"

"I said that we suck. We're incapable of acting like humans around each other. We lack the necessary social skills."

"Not necessarily," he protested. "We're just rusty. And I happen to think we're being pretty human."

"Come on, Gris. Normal people wouldn't even be in this situation, let alone fighting about it."

"Nah," Grissom said. "We'd be like Stepford CSIs if we didn't fight like this."

"Well . . ." Sara said pensively. "If that's true . . . then how would this ever work? If we fight constantly, I mean."

"We don't fight constantly, Sara. We only fight about a few particular things. It's just that the things we fight about tend to be the thinks we think about most."

Sara lay back onto the bed. "You know what, my brain isn't up to this right now. I need sleep."

"I know. I'm sorry for starting this – and all for a blanket. I should have just slept cold."

"Oh, come on," Sara teased. "If that had happened, you wouldn't have anything tempting to dream about tonight." 

Grissom's jaw dropped. Sara smiled and pushed him off the bed. "Go on, sleep."

"In a second," he said. Leaning back over the bed, he lightly kissed the corner of her mouth. "Ok, _now_ I have something to dream about."

When Grissom shut the door behind him, Sara looked around the room incredulously. Smothering a laugh, she asked the wall, "Did he just say something _romantic_?"


	26. Back in the saddle

Phew! Ok guys, I'm trying to get back into this whole "CSI" deal (what's that? Haven't thought about it for a month!), and here's the first evidence of success. This chapter is shorter than most of the other Pizza Boy chapters have been (er, like half the size), but I figured that everyone, including me, would like to just see it out there ASAP. So yeah, here's Part 26 :)

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When Grissom's eyes opened that night, it was to the sight of Sara, cup of coffee in one hand and book in the other, stretched out on the couch next to his futon. "What time is it?" he asked, sitting up. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

"Relax," Sara said. "It's a little after five; you've got plenty of time, and since I'm already dressed, you don't have to fight me for the shower. You want something to eat?"

Grissom took a moment to digest that information. "How long have you been awake? Why didn't you come get me?"

She shrugged. "Why would I? You were sleeping and there was no rush."

"Well yeah, but I wouldn't have minded being woken up. You're a lot more pleasant than my alarm clock."

"Thanks for that," she said with a smirk. "If you want me to wake you up when I get up in the future, just say so and I will - but be warned, you'll end up getting a lot less sleep than you probably do normally."

"I can handle it," he said. "I've operated on much less sleep than your wake-up calls will give me."

Sara snorted. "Right."

Choosing not to address Sara's apparent lack of belief in his sleep-related machismo, Grissom scratched his cheek. "What's this I hear about food? Did you eat already?"

"Nah, I was waiting for you to do that. What are you up for?"

"Here, or out?"

"Your choice; you're the guest."

"I don't even know what the choices are around here!"

Cocking her head to the side, Sara pursed her lips. "Well, there's the usual stock of diners, pizza places, and chinese places. Then we've got a couple of Charlie Browns' and Applebees . . . about a million Starbucks, if you need a caffeine fix. Really, we could probably find anything we want."

"Applebees . . . I think I've heard of that one. A bar and grill sort of place, right?"

"Yep. Great salads and appetizers, and I hear their hamburgers aren't too bad, if you're into that kind of thing."

"Sounds good to me. Let's go there."

Sara furrowed her brows. "No debate?"

"Why? Do you want to go somewhere else?"

"No, I'm fine with Applebees . . . I'm just not used to things being so simple with you."

"It's just food, Sara," Grissom said with a smile. "If we don't like it, we can always go somewhere else, ok?"

"Whatever floats your boat, Gris."

"So . . . what's on the schedule for tonight?" Grissom asked half an hour later as they studied their menus in the Applebees. "Are there any lingering cases?"

Sara took a sip of her water and looked thoughtful. "Not really, actually. And that's pretty unusual. The only thing I'm committed to tonight is a meeting with my supervisor."

"I thought you _were_ the supervisor."

She gave him a look that should have left his head aching from the mental slap upside of it. "So are you, Gris, and you have a supervisor too." Leaving it at that for the moment, she returned her attention to the menu. "I'm thinking Oriental Salad." Raising her eyes over the top of the menu, she looked at him. "What about you?"

"What? Oh, uh . . ." He considered the options. "I guess the ribs."

Sara made a face that didn't need to be explained. "If you say so. Just keep 'em away from my side of the table."

"So . . ." Grissom cocked his head slightly to the side and considered her. "What's this meeting about?"

"Politics, basically. I guess I'm lucky that that's not as big an issue here as it is in Las Vegas, but they still exist. There's supposed to be some sort of press release about me taking over the old guy's position, and the Sheriff wants me to give him details about who I am, where I come from, what I ate for breakfast . . . you know, the usual too-invasive-for-my-tastes stuff."

He nodded sagely. "It's the worst part of the job, isn't it?"

"Mmm." Whatever Sara had been about to say, she was cut off by the arrival of a waitress to take their orders. When the women had scribbled everything down and left, though, Sara continued her silence.

"So . . ." Grissom attempted. "What do you want me to do while you're at this meeting? I could stay back at your apartment, I guess . . . order in some pizza or something . . ."

Sara shook her head. "Nah, I wouldn't leave you alone in my apartment. Not only would it be boring for you, but you'd probably get absorbed in searching the whole place for god knows what, just to keep your mind occupied."

He was surprised by the shock of hurt that her comment drove through him, and he took a moment to compose himself before answering as best he could. "I wouldn't snoop around your belongings. You're not a criminal, and I'm a guest in your home." He paused, tracing a squiggle into the frost on his soda glass. "But I'd rather you not leave me home, anyway. Why don't you just put me to work again, like you did last night?"

Sara's skeptical look reminded him of the fiasco that the previous night had teetered on the edge of being, and he mentally backtracked. "But this way you wouldn't even be around to have to deal with me if I get, uh, unmaneagable." How depressing, he thought, and how ironic, that he was trying to keep Sara close to him by promising to stay away from her.

She looked at him curiously, fully aware that something strange was going on inside his greying head. "You're not unmaneagable. You're just . . . overthusiastic at times. But I can't fault you for that; it's what got you this far in the first place." Keeping her face as expressionless as possible, she added, "But I don't see why you shouldn't be able to work if you want to work. Mark's off tonight, so I could use an extra body in the field. Why don't I put you with . . .hmm . . ." She appeared to be mentally flipping through the possibilities. "Go with Sophie and Will, I'd say." A definitive nod. "Yeah - they're the two who could use the most help from someone older and wiser."


	27. Riding in cars with boys

Will and Sophie exchanged unreadable looks when Sara informed them of their assignment for the night. They seemed to reach a silent conclusion, because when their eyes moved away from each other's, both looked satisfied. "Sounds good to us," Will summarized to Sara. "What are you sending us out on?"

Sara flipped through the pieces of paper in her hand, thinking. "Here," she said after a few moments, handing him one. "Suspected arson up in Oakland."

"Cool!" he chirped. "That's right up my way." Looking at Sophie, he said smugly, "I'll drive."

Sophie looked unperturbed. "Whatever you say, man." She turned to Grissom and smiled. "This'll be fun, trust me. We'll be out all night, not the least because that's a good half-hour, forty-five minute drive from here."

Grissom, lacking anything to say, said nothing and just nodded, then looked at Sara, who nodded. "Ok, then, I'll leave you guys to yourselves," she said, inclining her head toward them. "Keep in mind that you'll be having a lot more fun doing what you'll be doing than I'll be having doing what I'll be doing."

"Right, boss." Will gave her a grin and a wink, then turned to Sophie and Grissom. "Shall we?" he asked, sticking out his arm for Sophie to take hold of.

"We shall," she answered, taking his arm.

Grissom gave the pair a pained look and followed them outside.

"So," he said from the passenger's seat of the department vehicle, "where are we going again? 'Oakland,' as in the California city?"

"Yeah," Sophie said, leaning forward from her position in the backseat. "Oakland, the same name. I wouldn't exactly call this Oakland a 'city,' though. It's, uh . . . small."

Will, somehow managing to keep his eyes on the road and participate in any and all conversation at the same time, flicked a playful hand over his shoulder at her. "Don't knock 'small,' kid. We raise good people up here."

Sophie snorted. "Yeah, if you call yourself 'good'."

Grissom raised an eyebrow. "You're from Oakland?" he asked the other man politely.

"No, Ringwood. One town over. But close enough – and Oakland is more industrialized than Ringwood, too, so I'm a fan of what other people think of as the backwoods."

"Backwoods, hah." Leaning further forward so that she was in the front seat from the shoulders up, Sophie shook her head. "You want 'backwoods,' you should see where _I_ grew up. Some cows, lots of snow, and not much else. Upstate New York's worse than any part of North Jersey."

Grissom was beginning to get worried by all this talk of rural areas and backwoods.  He hadn't grown up in a city, either, but he was having visions of them pulling up to a burned-down barn surrounded by people with beards and overalls. "So . . . there's no cows here?" He had no idea how his brain had come up with a lame question like that.

The younger people seemed amused by this question. "I'm sure there's some in town somewhere," Will said, "but you don't exactly see them on the street corners in Oakland. Let me put it this way: the main attraction of the town is a Shop-Rite."

"I see."

"Oh, enough about the damn cows," Sophie said after a moment of silence. "Can we talk about something more interesting than how boring the tri-state area is?"

"Sounds good to me," Will replied, then glanced slyly at Grissom. "We could talk about this guy in the car with us, and why he's up here visiting Sara and working with us."

"Ooooh," Sophie concurred. "Good idea. So," she said, turning her face toward Grissom, "who are you, how do you know Sara, and why are you here?"

Grissom let out a startled chuckle. "I thought we had already been introduced. My name's Gil Grissom, and I used to be Sara's boss in Las Vegas."

"_Vegas_," Will said with a knowing nod.

"Yes, Vegas. What about it?"

"Nothing big. Just that we don't know much about what Sara did before she came here. She doesn't like to talk about it. "

Grissom had a sudden, overpowering urge for a cigarette. He could hazard a good guess as to why Sara didn't like to talk about her past, and said guess would definitely involve him. "Do either of you smoke?"

Puzzled looks crossed their faces. "Uh, no," Sophie said. "Why?"

"I just quit, like three months ago," Will said with a clear hint of stress in his voice. "It's been a bitch. Why?" he finished, echoing Sophie.

"I'm, uh, in the process of quitting. So I guess that means neither of you has any cigarettes on you, then . . ."

"Check the glove compartment," Will told him. "There might be a leftover pack in there from me or Mark."

"Mark quit too?" Grissom asked, opening the glove box. Will nodded and Grissom fought back the urge to groan. He was trying his best to not feel threatened by the younger man Sara was so close with, but it was beginning to sound like he could do everything Grissom couldn't. 

That depressing thought was joyfully pushed aside, though, when he spotted a crumpled pack of Camels behind the car's owners manual. "Thank god!"

"Not to interrupt your joy or anything," Sophie said hesitantly, "but isn't the point of quitting . . . _not_ smoking?"

Ignoring that for the moment, Grissom turned to Will. "Is smoking allowed in these cars? Do you mind?"

Will shrugged. "Yes, and no. Just don't blow it in my face."

Within seconds Grissom had lit the cigarette and was taking a deep drag. He held his breath for a moment, waiting for the buzz to hit his brain, then let out a sigh of relief. "Ah . . . so much better." Opening his eyes again, he looked at Sophie. "What did you ask me?"

"I said, 'Isn't the point of quitting cigarettes to _not_ smoke them?'"

He glanced at the smoldering object in his hand. "Uh, well, yeah. This is my first in almost two days – that's a new record. Quitting is part of why I'm up here to begin with."

"Oh?" The curiosity was evident in Will's face. "Do tell."

That was the last thing he wanted to do. "Are we getting close?" Grissom stalled, looking out the window.

"Nope," the others said in unison. "Just tell us," Will coaxed. "We're not going to go spread tales."

"It's not a 'tale,'" Grissom said defensively. "It's just a . . . story. About why I'm here."

"Uh-huh," Sophie said impatiently, "and that story is . . .?"

Grissom took another hard puff on his cigarette.

"So, Sara," Sheriff Max Andrews said, leaning back in his chair. "You want to tell me about the guy you've been sending out on cases with your staff the past few days?"

The word "no" jumped to Sara's lips, but she repressed it. "Is there a reason you're asking me that, Sheriff?"

"We don't usually invite guests to help in the lab. You know that as well as I do. This guy could tamper with whatever evidence he wants, he could mess up scenes . . . just try explaining it on the stand if a defense attorney finds out!" He paused, pressing his hands. "You know I'm not going to come down on you like a ton of bricks about this if you have a reason. But I need to know that reason so I can explain it to any higher-ups who might ask."

Sara narrowed her eyes. "Is that why you asked me for this meeting? You told me that you wanted my sound bytes, not my . . . personal life."

An eyebrow went up. "Is he a part of your personal life, then?"

"That's not what I meant. I just meant that this has nothing to do with what you told me this would have to do with."

"I'm not accusing you of anything," Andrews pointed out calmly. "And no, I didn't lie to get you in here; I do need that background information. But this matter strikes me as more important than the other."

Sara gritted her teeth, knowing the man was right. If she were on the other side of that desk, she'd be demanding the same information. There just couldn't be civilians allowed to roam scientific labs that produced legal evidence unless they had clearance and a good reason. She sighed. "His name is Gil Grissom. He used to be my boss when I worked in Las Vegas. I promise you, he's qualified to work on scenes and in labs. He's a CSI-III and quite well-known in forensic circles."

"Mmhmm," Andrews nodded, making a note on a post-it. "Ok, good. So he's not a civvie . . . but why is he here, rather than in Las Vegas? Is he looking for a new job like you were?"

Sara suppressed the interest that leapt to the front of her mind at that possibility. "Not that I know of. Basically, he's taking a vacation from Las Vegas, but he's a workaholic and so his idea of 'vacation' is coming to another lab to work."

He looked skeptical. "That's an interesting notion of a vacation, but to each his own, I suppose. So you're telling me he's an eminently qualified CSI who just decided to take a trip to New Jersey and lend his expertise?"

"Essentially," Sara said, nodding. "He's also trying to quit smoking, so he thought a change of atmosphere would do him good." She thought for a second. "If you want to meet him – so you can approve him or whatever – that's fine. He's out with Sophie and Will tonight, but I can bring him in to talk to you tomorrow."

The sheriff nodded. "Yes, why don't we do that. Not that I distrust your judgment," he added, "but since I'll be assumed to have approved his presence, it's probably a good idea if I meet him. How's, say, ten o'clock tomorrow night?"

"That's fine." She hoped she sounded more composed than she felt, because she was sure that Grissom wouldn't be happy about having to play politics and shake hands here any more than he was happy about doing it in Las Vegas.

"Well?"

Grissom looked up from the circle of red-burning paper he'd been contemplating. "What?"

Will rolled his eyes. "'Well,' why don't you tell us the story of why you're in New Jersey with Sara instead of at your lab, or on some tropical island or something."

"Oh, that." He stared at the cigarette for a moment longer, then looked up. "It's really not much of a story. Tropical islands aren't my style, and my lab wasn't conducive to quitting these things." He lifted his hand briefly, displaying the cigarette in it. "That's basically all there is to it."

"Uh-uh," Will said with a laugh. "That's never all there is to it. We want to know why you're _here_, with _Sara_. We heard her on the phone with you before you came up."

"Oh really?" It was Grissom's turn to roll his eyes. "I begin to see why she was so annoyed with you two. Aren't you supposed to be making amends by squiring me around and making sure I don't get into trouble?"

Will grinned. "I'm squiring." He looked over his shoulder at Sophie. "Are you squiring?"

"I'm squiring."

"There, see?" He turned back to Grissom. "You're being squired."

"Gee," Grissom said dryly, "thanks."

"So?" Sophie prompted. "Tell us the story."

"There _is_ no story."

"Is too."

"Is no—hey, wait." Grissom glared at the young woman. "I will not be drawn into a childish argument."

"Too late," Will smirked. "You just were. She's good at that."

Grissom glowered.

"Look," Sophie said in a more grown-up voice, "we're not going to get to the scene for another good ten, fifteen minutes. Why don't you just tell us? We have nothing against you, and whatever's up, we'll help if we can."

Grissom was silent.

"Come on," Will said, "what do you say? Please?"

"Oh, fine." Grissom took one more drag off of the cigarette, tossed it out the window he'd rolled down, and rubbed his hands together. "But this information doesn't go any farther than this truck."

Two heads bobbed in vigorous agreement, and Grissom began to speak.


	28. Be desireless, be excellent, be gone

"So he came all the way out _here_?" Sam asked later that morning, peering at a beaming Sophie over the rim of his coffee mug. "Because she's a better drug than nicotine?"

Sophie made a rude noise. "Oh, come on, Sam. Could you at least _try_ to act like a human? This is, like, a star-crossed lovers thing!"

"Hate to break it to you," Walter pointed out coolly, "but they don't look very star-crossed to me. He's here, she's here . . . Mark let it slip to me that he's staying with her . . ."

Four heads snapped around toward Walter and asked in unison, "What?" 

"He's doing _what_?" Will stressed.

Walter cringed, knowing he'd let a very big cat out of a very small bag. "Oops."

"Tell," Sam ordered.

"There's nothing to tell, I swear. All I know is Mark told me that he thought that Grissom wasn't at a hotel or anything and he was pretty sure he was staying in Sara's apartment."

"You call that 'nothing'?" Sophie gave him a look of disbelief. "That's huge! Obviously Sara's not going to have strange men over for sleepovers . . ." 

Sam let out a cough with the words, "How do you know" buried in it and Sophie glared at him. "Seriously. Don't even try to tell me you think this is normal for her."

"I have no idea what's normal for her," Sam retorted. "I'm not the CSI she's best friends with or mentor to."

"Could you two stop bickering long enough to let someone else talk?" Jack harrumphed from across the table. "I think we should get back to the matter at hand: Will and Sophie's story about what Grissom told them."

"Exactly," Sophie said triumphantly. "Now, as I was saying before Sam _interrupted_ me so rudely . . ."

Sara yawned as she shifted her car into Park in front of her apartment building. "I never knew politics could take so much out of you," she said, her words distorted by the yawn. "I'm dead tired."

"No breakfast, then?" Grissom asked noncommittally. "You said when you're tired you don't eat."

She shrugged. "Yeah, true, but if you want I'll stay up with you while you eat. Gotta get that health food and clean air into you somehow, right?"

The mention of clean air made Grissom wince. He still hadn't decided whether to confess his smoking indiscretion to her or not; he was going back and forth between believing she'd be sympathetic and believing she'd hit him with a frying pan for being so weak. "Uh, yeah," he said, finally noticing the dead air between them. "Yeah, I'd like you to eat with me or, failing that, at least sit with me."

"No problem. Just poke me if I fall asleep in your corn flakes."

Sara was amused when Grissom insisted on holding open her apartment door for her. "What is this, an experiment? I can let myself in, you know."

Grissom gave her an impassive look. "I know," he said simply, and left it at that.

"Sooo . . ." Sara automatically opened her refrigerator and looked into it. "What do you want?"

"This is starting to sound familiar," Grissom said with a laugh as he looked over her shoulder. "Someone not in the know might think you're Miss Domesticity."

Without turning to look at him, Sara stuck her tongue out of the side of her mouth. "Who says I'm not? Besides, this is just good hospitality. Blame it on my being a kid raised in a B&B."

"Good point." He broke off and moved his attention to the shelves in front of him for a moment. "You know, I think I'm just going to go with some cereal again. That's always safe."

Sara stepped sideways, moving out from in front of him, and nodded. "Sounds good. You know where everything is," she added, tipping her head toward the cabinets. "I'm gonna turn on the TV while you get yourself set up." She wandered off toward Grissom's makeshift bed, otherwise known as her futon, settled on it with the remote control, and began flipping.

Grissom was pouring milk into his bowl of Cheerios when he heard Sara exclaim, "Hey!"

"What?" he asked, leaning over the breakfast bar and trying to see the television. "Something good?"

"_The Tao of Steve_," she said with a grin, not taking her eyes off the TV. "One of the funniest movies ever!"

"Sounds spiritual." He picked up his bowl and spoon and moved into the living room.

Sara grinned at him and stole a still-dry cheerio out of his bowl as he sat down. "Nope, not really. That's actually the name of the guy's strategy for picking up chicks and/or getting laid."

". . .  Oh."

"Just watch. You'll figure it out soon enough."

A minute later, he grimaced. "Is he really . . ."

"Yeah. In the library. Keep watching."

Sara was amused to see Grissom's facial expression vacillate between shock and amusement at the sometimes-crude humor of the movie. "I'm gonna go make popcorn. Will you eat some?"

He nodded, then snorted at the television and revised the nod into a shrug. "I don't know if I can keep it down while watching _this_."

Sara shook her head in mock sadness. "You're hopeless. Can you not appreciate the fact that he's falling for someone with more brains than him?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of being disgusted by the way they're portraying the men as vapid and useless."

Moving into the kitchen, Sara protested, "Oh, come on. He's not useless – he's a teacher. And the other guys . . . well, ok, maybe they're a little useless. But it gets better, I promise."

She was back a few minutes later with a bowl of popcorn and a can of soda. "What happened to your 'health food'?" Grissom asked with a pointed look at the fare in front of her.

"We're watching a movie! This doesn't count." Defiantly, she shoved her hand deep into the popcorn, pulling out a handful of the stuff. "Mmm, grease."

Grissom only gave her an amused look, then shifted his attention back to the movie that, despite his complaints, was beginning to grow on him.

The bowl was half-empty when Grissom reached into it and spoke again. "Oh, this just makes me feel great."

"What?" Sara asked with a confused look. "Popcorn?"

"No." He pointed to the screen. "A guy practically half my age being told _he_ needs to stop smoking and lose weight. Where does that leave old-timers like me?"

"Well, you're quitting. There's half of it right there. I mean, you're not fat like him anyway, and you haven't had a cigarette since you've been here, right?" Reaching for some popcorn, she unintentionally brushed her hand against his and quickly pulled it back an inch, eyes moving to his face.

Grissom didn't move his hand away from its spot on the edge of the bowl, and he simply looked at her with an impassive expression that he hoped hid the rush of guilt he was feeling. To tell or not to tell?

He must have waited too long, he realized after a few seconds, because Sara took a closer look at him. "Right?" she repeated. "I haven't seen you with one since you've been here, at least . . ."

"I had one tonight," he blurted, deciding that confession would be therapeutic. "It was a moment of weakness. I hadn't had any cravings up until then, but I just got a little overwhelmed. Maybe because you weren't there," he said tentatively. "It was, uh, a tough ride to the scene."

"Why?" She looked puzzled. "Like you got lost?"

"No, more like I was being interrogated . . . without the interrogation."

"Um . . . what?"

Embarrassment was beginning to show on his face. "Your CSIs kind of, well, conned me into telling them why I'm here."

"Where? Here?" She gestured toward the floor. "In my apartment? Or 'here,' in New Jersey?"

"They don't know I'm in your apartment, and I certainly didn't tell them about it."

"So you told them . . . what? That you're here for vacation and to quit smoking, right?"

He shook his head. "Worse."

"_Worse_? I don't like that word, Grissom."

"Yeah, well, I don't particularly care for it either. What I mean is that they got pretty much the _whole_ story out of me."

"Whole story," she parroted. "Like . . . you and me? The e-mails?"

"Some."

Sara closed her eyes for a moment and shook her head in disbelief. Grissom had spilled the beans? What had happened to the reserved, silent Grissom she had known for ten years? "Tell me the whole thing."

He thought for a second. "Well, there isn't really that much to tell that you don't already know."

"Yes," she said through a tight smile, "but I want to know what _they_ know."

Grissom sighed deeply and took another handful of popcorn. "I told them that we knew each other since you were in college, and how we met and everything. Just an overview, you know, no detailed descriptions."

"There isn't much detail in our meeting, anyway." This was said in a flippant tone that Sara hoped hit the right balance between being amused by his weakness and being annoyed at his big mouth.

Sara looked no happier having heard the beginning of his tale than she had before hearing any of it, and Grissom silently acknowledged that he'd have to eat crow before he was allowed to sleep. "Well, I didn't tell them," he said defensively. "But as I was saying, I told them a little about that, and a little about how you ended up with me in Las Vegas . . ."

" 'With' you?" She snorted indelicately.

Without thinking, Grissom looked down at the bowl where their hands had just touched while he said quietly, "You know what I mean. Obviously not 'with'."

Appeased by his agreement, Sara nodded. "Go on."

Letting his head fall back on his shoulders, Grissom let out a breath through pursed lips. "Let me put it this way – your CSIs still know much less than my CSIs do about what's gone on between you and I."

"Me."

"What?"

"Me. It's 'between you and _me_'."

He gave her an exasperated look. "Does it matter?" When Sara assumed a supremely unconcerned look and waved a hand at him, he started again. "They know where and how we met. They know the highlights, so to speak, of what happened in Vegas, like, uh, why we fought and about Hank, and . . ." Whoops. He immediately knew he should have known better than to mention the other man. "About all that stuff," he said quickly, trying to cover it up. "And they have a very general sketch of why you left, and why I came here."

"In other words," she began slowly, "they know everything they wanted to know." Unable to help herself, she reached out and lightly smacked Grissom on the side of his head. "Are you _crazy_? Now the entire office is going to know the story!"

"They promised to keep it to themselves, Sara."

"And you _believed_ them? Grissom, they're, like, twenty years old! They don't even know _how_ to keep a secret!"

"I think you underestimate them," he said with a frown. "Youth does not automatically equal ignorance."

"Of course it does," she said in a tired voice. "_Every_one is going to know."

Taking a moment to steel himself, Grissom crossed his arms in front of him and said, "You know, it doesn't have to be a secret. We don't work together anymore; it's not like our connection being known will have disastrous consequences."

Sara glared. "Not for you, maybe. You get to go home eventually. Me, I'll be stuck here with twenty people who think I _import_ dates or something."

"Uh, Sara . . . we haven't gone on a date."

"Does it _matter_?" She waved a dismissing hand in front of her. "They'll think that. And _poof_, there goes the professional respect they have for me."

Unable to argue any further, Grissom stood up. "I obviously can't change your mind about how the world works, but I feel that I should point out that it's not considered weakness to have emotional connections to other people. In fact, I would say it's even encouraged by most of the world. "

Moving the bowl of popcorn from her lap to the floor, Sara sighed and stood up, facing him. "You don't get it. Things work differently in your Grissom-world than in the real world." She shook her head. "I'm going to bed, to either fall asleep or think up some ways to do damage control."

She turned and would have been gone had Grissom's next comment not stopped her. "They think it's a great idea, you know. You and me."

Looking back at him, she shook her head. "Well, I'm glad _someone_ knows whether it's a good idea or not. Good night, Grissom." 

Seconds later, he heard the _click_ of her bedroom door closing. Looking down at his hands, Grissom realized that they were trembling slightly. Whether it was from nicotene withdrawal or from the quasi-argument with Sara, he decided, it wasn't a good sign. Now that two more people knew his situation, he was going to have to put them to work if he had any hope of convincing Sara.


	29. But feel free to come back

The bed moved of its own accord and Grissom's sleep-muddled mind sent a weak warning signal to the rest of his body. His brain slipped a notch out of the deep sleep it had been in and fired off a few electrical pulses, yielding the mostly-unconscious thought that the movement might be the result of an earthquake. 

Noting the inherent danger in the connection between earthquake and sleep, his brain set a few more synapses to work and Grissom began to be aware of the fact that he was asleep. Still not conscious, and with no desire to be, Grissom let his brain spin while he hung suspended in the area between sleep and waking. 

A few seconds later, the answer came back and he slipped another inch away from sleep, enough to allow him to open an eye and stare at the wall facing him. He couldn't immediately identify the wall, which meant that it was neither his bedroom wall in Las Vegas nor the wall of the studio apartment he had lived in while working in LA. Brain productivity cranked up another notch and Grissom realized that he was in New Jersey, on the east coast, and not in California or Nevada; given that fact, he decided that an earthquake was highly unlikely.

Well, if it wasn't an earthquake, then it probably wasn't dangerous. Passing that message up to the worried portion of his brain, he rolled back into his pillow, burying his face in it, and began the descent back into full sleep.

The bed moved again, this time with an audible squeak, and the worrywart in his head jumped back to attention, this time adding a splash of adrenaline to the mix. It became an effort to keep his eyes closed, and after a few seconds he let them drift open again. There was no sensory input for a long minute as Grissom waited for the sound to come again, and then he felt more movement. More awake this time, he was able to pinpoint the movement as being behind his back, and queried his brain for possible causes of the movement.

His slushy-feeling mind was spared the task, however, when the movement was abruptly ended by something bumping into his back. Startled by this happening, neurons began firing like it was the Fourth of July, and he was zapped to full consciousness. 

Within seconds of coming awake, Grissom had formed a theory and was rolling over onto his other side. Milliseconds ticked by as his brain was put to work once again, this time processing the visual input, and he could almost feel a small "ding!" in his head as things clicked.

The entity that had been moving his bed was, indeed, the same entity that had just bumped into him, and said entity was possessed of a tangle of dark hair and a pale hand.

Some time between 10 o'clock, when he'd fallen asleep, and now – whenever "now" was – Sara had joined him on the futon. She appeared to have brought her own sheet, and had settled herself on top of his blankets, shielding their bodies from direct contact, but that knowledge made Grissom no less aware of the current overriding fact – that Sara was on the futon with him, spontaneously and of her own will.

Ok, he was officially cheerful.

Moving tentatively, he raised his arm beneath his blanket until his cloth-covered hand made contact with her shoulder. "Sara?" It was barely a hint of a whisper, uttered on a gentle exhalation; he wasn't all that sure he wanted her to wake up and answer him, anyway. 

"Mmm." Sara's eyes didn't open.

Good, she was still asleep. He mentally poked himself for almost causing a moment that would have been awkward at best, and lowered his arm back to its original position safely away from the form sleeping next to him.

He was about to roll back to face the wall when her sleepy voice, nearly as quiet as his had been, said, "Gris?"

His eyes jumped to her face and met her half-open ones. "Yeah?" He lowered his head back into the pillow so that their faces were on the same level, only inches apart.

"Gotta talk to you tomorrow." She offered no further comment, and her eyes closed again.

Well, he thought, that had been rather nonsensical. "Mmm," he offered in response, then: "Are you cold?"

"Mmrugh?" Opening her mouth when she responded was apparently beyond her unconscious abilities, and he chose to take the grunt as a yes.

Prying the edge of his blanket out from under Sara's dead weight, he flipped it back slightly. "Come on, get in."

"Mmm." Her eyes still didn't open, but she obeyed his command and inched over until the bottom sheet was beneath her back, then lay passively as he moved the cover back up, covering both of them.

Their bodies were barely touching, but Grissom could feel the cold coming off of her skin – what had made her think that he wouldn't share and that she had to bring her own thin sheet? Hoping nothing embarrassing came of it, Grissom moved up until her side touched his stomach and curled an arm around one of hers, which was flung above her head on the pillow. The cliché "cold hands, warm heart," crossed his mind as he covered her cool hand with his own, interlacing their fingers, and lay back onto the pillow. His eyes flickered closed and Grissom's sleep picked up where it had left off, with only the addition of another warm body to the pool of sensations his brain ignored for the next four hours.

Something embarrassing came of it, of course – just his luck, and something he ought to have had the forethought to avoid. 

The sun was beginning to set when Grissom opened his eyes again, and after scanning the room for a clock he learned that it was 4:30 PM, giving them half an hour until Sara's alarm went off.

He had absolutely no idea of what Sara would think or say when she awoke. Had she really joined him willingly, or had there been another reason? Had she sleepwalked, or had a nightmare? There were no answers to be had until her eyes opened, too, and so he relaxed into the bed, fully awake and watching her sleeping form.

The clock had just turned to 4:40 when he found a pair of brown eyes studying him. Neither of them said anything for a long second, and then Grissom managed a weak, "Good morning."

Sara's eyes opened wider and he could tell that she was processing where she was and why. Whatever answers she came up with, though, didn't seem to alarm her much, and she gave him a small smile. " 'Morning. How long have you been up?"

"Not long."

Sara was quiet again as she linked her hands above her head and stretched, arching her back, causing her body to press against his for a few seconds. When she had relaxed to her former position, he noticed that the smile on her face had become wider. She continued to look at him, and finally he could no longer stand the glint of amusement in her eyes. "What?" he asked.

A suppressed chuckle shook her shoulders. "Nothing. It's just been a while since I've woken up to some aspects of this situation."

He rolled his eyes. "Obviously, since as far as I know, you've never woken up in New Jersey with me in your bed."

"Well yeah, there's that." She made an effort to wipe the smile from her face, then moved a little closer to him, curling her body toward his until her knees bumped his thigh. "I kind of like this."

Raising his eyebrows, he said, "Yeah, I do too – but that doesn't answer my question."

"What question?" she asked, looking at him with innocent eyes.

"I asked why you were so amused about the situation."

He could see the contemplation journey across her face as she tried to think of an answer to give him. "Don't be mad, okay?" she finally said.

That, of course, preemptively set him on the edge of anger. "I won't."

She obviously didn't believe him, because she let out a sigh before speaking. "I just thought it was kinda amusing. I mean yeah, waking up next to you is pretty damn weird to begin with, but then there's this . . ." She moved her knees up to just below his waist, and as his attention focused there, Grissom knew what she was talking about. 

He could feel his face begin to turn red, and he immediately pulled away. "Sorry."

She reached out a slim arm and let it rest on his upper arm. "No, no, I didn't mean you should apologize or anything. It just . . ." She shrugged, still smiling a little. "Put the situation that last millimeter into surrealism."

"It's not _that_ surreal, Sara," he muttered. "Biology's a concrete science."

The laughter finally burst out of her and she could feel Grissom stiffen up. Stiffen up! – the thought brought a fresh burst of giggles out of her. "Mmm," she muttered after a minute, getting control of herself, "sorry. I'm not laughing at you, 'cause there's nothing to laugh at. I'm just . . . it, uh . . ." She gave up on trying apologize, unable to come up with words that didn't sound insulting or crude, and instead she just slid her arms around him and squeezed, letting her face rest against his chest.

Grissom cleared his throat. "I have no idea what you were just trying to communicate to me, but I'll accept whatever it was if you're going to keep doing this." He slid a hand up her back as he spoke, coming to rest on her shoulder. "I could get used to this."

Sara didn't respond to that, and for a moment he thought she'd fallen back to sleep. She shifted her weight then until she was lying on her back again, almost not touching him. "Yeah, it'd be easy, wouldn't it?"

There was definitely a hidden meaning behind those words, and Grissom was afraid he knew what it was. "But . . .?"

She shrugged. " 'But' nothing. I'm just saying."

He could have sworn there was an audible "pop" as his bubble burst. "You were 'just saying.' Okay." He propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at her. "Suppose you tell me why there's a 'this' to get used to – why you're here rather than there," he added, nodding toward her bedroom. "When I woke up in the middle of the night, you said you needed to talk to me."

"Yeah," she said, sounding highly displeased. "Well, uh, I just wanted to apologize for going off on you this morning."

Grissom cocked an eyebrow and looked at her, waiting for more elucidation, which she hesitantly supplied. "I mean, the thing about you talking to Sophie and Will. I kinda thought about it for a while while I was in bed. That one," she said, moving her eyes toward her bedroom, "not this one. And, oh, I don't know. You made sense for once."

She was in a whimsical mood today, he decided. Chances were that he wasn't going to get her into a deep and meaningful conversation when she was still fighting the giggles about what she'd felt when she snuggled into him. "I made sense, did I? That's always nice to hear." Feeling a bit of whimsy himself, he reached down and twirled a strand of her hair around his finger. "Does that mean I'm forgiven for having a big mouth?"

"It's not that big." She reached up and touched his lips, gently running two fingers over them. "See?"

A jolt of panic rushed through him. What was he supposed to do when she touched him like this? At a loss (a feeling that was becoming uncomfortably familiar to him), he simply let her touch him, neither pulling back from nor leaning into it. When she removed her hand after a few seconds, he reflexively licked his lips quickly where they had been. "I guess that means I _am_ forgiven."

The small smile was back on her face. "Mmm, I guess you are." Without sitting up, she asked, "What time is it?"

"Four fifty-three, why?"

"I don't know." She looked up at him and simultaneously moved closer, dangling her free arm across his waist. "I just don't feel like getting out of bed yet."

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**A/N:** Did they or didn't they? Will they or won't they? Well if it makes you feel better, I'm not sure either, but I'll be sure to write it in when I figure it out. Geez, I'm so squeamish…


	30. Pizza revisited

Sara grunted uncooperatively when Grissom tapped her shoulder ten minutes later. Not bothering to open her eyes, she rolled toward him and moaned, "Nooo . . . I want five more minutes."

"Uh, Sara . . ." He quieted when he felt her arms go around him again, knowing that she had no idea how much he wanted to acquiesce to her request. "I really think we ought to get up now."

"No." Her mouth was in a definite pout now, he noted.

"Yes," Grissom said, giving her shoulder a firmer push. "Up, now. _I'm_ not the one who's going to have to explain to an inquisitive team why their boss and the guy they think she's shacking up with arrived late together."

Sara opened her eyes.

"Gotcha." Grissom smiled. "Now come on, get up – I want time to feed you before work."

"Feed me? What, like you're going to hold the spoon?" Despite the rebellion implied in her words, Sara sat up and scratched her side. "Ugh, I feel like I barely slept."

"You were pretty soundly asleep when you woke me up. You've operated on far less sleep than this."

She sighed. "Yeah, but it's so _warm_ in here," she said, spreading her hands over the blankets that still covered Grissom and most of her.

"Take a hot shower."

She gave him another of her laughing looks; Grissom figured it out himself this time. "Or a cold shower, if you feel that's necessary . . ."

She grinned at him. "Why, Grissom! I didn't know you had this stuff in you!" Leaning over to him, she slid her fingers through his hair. "Nice 'fro, by the way."

"Nice . . . what?"

" 'Fro. Your hair is sticking straight up."

His hand went to where hers had just been, attempting to restore some order to the mess. "And I don't even have a good reason for it to be this messy."

Sara gave him a considering look. "A 'good reason'? What would that be?"

He shrugged theatrically. "Oh, I don't know – perhaps that I had been rolling around in bed with a very attractive woman that I'm too old for?"

"Rolling can be arranged," Sara said with a grin. "Do you need to have that reason, for your male pride or something?"

"Will rolling result if I say 'yes'?"

"Yes."

"Yes."

Sara shook her head with a laugh. "It's a new experience to volunteer myself to be manipulated to feed a man's ego. Come on," she said, beckoning to him.

Grissom blinked. "Uh . . ."

"Work with me on this, Grissom."

Sternly ordering himself not to look this particular gift horse in the mouth, Grissom shifted a few inches over in the bed, placing himself alongside Sara, then stopped again. "Does this feel awkward to you?"

"Yup. But, really, it'd be weirder if it didn't." After a few seconds of silence, she realized that he wasn't going to make the first move. "I do _not_ want to hear about this later tonight from my CSIs," she warned him, then cupped his cheek in her hand and leaned into him. 

They shared a feather-light kiss for a moment before Grissom pulled back and wiggled his eyebrows at her. "And the rolling . . .?"

"Jerk." She stuck out her tongue. "Your turn."

The words were hardly out of her mouth before Grissom's mouth was on hers again.

"Pizza." Sara looked at the red, green, and white awning above the restaurant they were pulling up in front of and couldn't help laughing. "I should have known."

"I did tell you, way back when you hated me, that when I next saw you I was going to feed you pizza whether you liked it or not." He waved a hand toward the front door. "This place comes highly recommended."

"Let me guess – Sophie."

"Yes, actually," he said, looking surprised. "You're good, you know that?"

"Yeah," she said. "I know. So . . . shall we?"

Sara took a sip of her soda a few minutes later and cocked her head to the side. "So you actually asked them where a good place to take me out was?"

"Well, I didn't _ask_ them so much as they _told_ me. You've got a wily pair of matchmakers on your hands."

Sara's face tightened at the mention of matchmaking and she quickly took another sip of soda to camouflage it. "Yeah, uh, they're sharp."

"What?" Grissom had caught the change in her face, though he couldn't identify it, and he knew that there was something going on inside of her head, but damned if he could figure out that was, either.

Sara looked up, meeting his eyes. "What?" she echoed.

He attempted levity: "I said it first." When she didn't offer more than a weak smile in return, he sighed. "I was asking what's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong. Why do you ask?"

He couldn't keep the sharpness from his voice as he said, "Don't bullshit me, Sara."

Her eyes widened at his tone. "Excuse me! Exactly _how_ am I bullshitting you, praytell?"

"We're never going to get anywhere with this if you feel that you can't tell me what worries you about it."

" 'This'? 'It'?" She gave him a purposely-obtuse look. "More specifics, please?"

Grissom closed his eyes for a moment, dredging up some patience. "You might as well have rung an alarm bell when I mentioned that Sophie and Will were matchmaking. Obviously, something about it still bothers you even though you told me that I'm forgiven."

"Well, maybe I'm not upset at _you_ about it, then."

He didn't know how to break through the wall of defensiveness that she'd thrown up. "Do you want to leave?" he asked on a sigh. "If you'd rather just go to work and get some privacy from me . . ."

"No." She shook her head firmly. "Privacy is probably a bad idea. Can we just . . . change the subject? Talk about something stupid while we eat?"

" 'Stupid'," Grissom mused. "Well, I spoke to Greg last night."

Sara's face relaxed as she realized that he was cooperating. "Are you calling Greg 'stupid'?"

"No, not really. More 'silly' than 'stupid,' I'd say. I could tell that he was desperate to ask where I was and if I had any news about you, but I think he was afraid to spit the words out. He kind of danced around it."

"What'd you tell him?" she asked, tucking a loose strand of hair back behind her ear. "You haven't been threatening him or something, have you?"

"Nope, no threats, though it might be fun to see his reaction. I told him that I was having a nice vacation and asked him how things were going at the lab."

"And how are things going, then?"

"Well, Greg lost a bet to Nick about Catherine's, uh, bra size – this was done without her knowledge, you understand – and he had to pay up by putting all of Nick's evidence to the top of his list until the end of the week."

Sara gave him a disbelieving look. "And _you're_ complaining about _my_ CSIs being nosy? Geez, I hope Catherine found out and paid them back."

Grissom shrugged. "Greg couldn't talk long because Catherine was stalking him and he had to keep moving. I suppose that would be your answer."

"Good." She shook her head. "Man, if I ever found out anyone was making bets like that about me . . ."

"I doubt that they are. I know there's a pool going on for the date you'll return – and someone has the 'not returning' option, too – but I don't think anyone's gained enough courage to discuss your underwear when there's still the chance you can come back and kill them for it."

"You make me sound so violent!"

"Are you claiming you wouldn't do them harm if it happened?"

"Well, no. I guess not. But still."

"Sara, the bottom line is that they all miss you. The betting is just a way to keep you in their minds and to keep the hope that you _will_ come back."

Sara sighed. "They really shouldn't . . . that makes me feel guilty. Like I'd be letting them down if I don't choose them."

"In a way," he said, taking a bite of his slice of pizza, "you would be. The thing is, you have no obligation to not let them down, either. You were honest with them – us – from the first day you thought of taking this job, and I honestly can't see anyone in Vegas not understanding why you would want to get out of there."

"Oh?" Sara set down her own slice and regarded him contemplatively. "So why would they think I 'wanted to get out of there'? Because of you?"

"Somewhat. Also because they all know you're too good to be an underling your whole life."

She shook her head. "No, I don't think so. I'm not much better than everyone else on the team, if I'm better at all, and they're all still there."

"Sounds to me," he said levelly, "like you've been thinking about this."

"You think I don't feel like the worst friend in the world?" She turned her palms up in a helpless gesture. "You think I don't feel like I let the entire lab down by leaving? Well, I do. And I feel guilty for having found a job here that I like, because I know it increases the odds that I'll be letting down the Las Vegas people yet again if I decide to definitely stay here!"

"That's quite a mouthful." Grissom could almost touch the anger she was feeling at herself, and he didn't like it. "I'll tell you again – you have no obligation to all of us other than to treat us with respect and to do what will make you happy."

"Doesn't stop me from feeling like I do."

"If feelings were under our conscious control," he pointed out, "I don't think either of us would be sitting here. Unfortunately, they're not, and we fall victim to things like useless guilt."

"That's nice of you to say, Grissom, but you can't tell me that you're not also sitting there hoping that I suddenly turn around and ask for my job back."

"Of course I am. I'm also sitting here hoping that you'll be willing to discuss what happened today with me as we eat, but I know that you don't want to and I feel no resentment for that fact."

"Yes you do."

"No, I don't. Disappointment, perhaps, but not resentment. I know better than to try to make you talk when you're not ready."

Swallowing the last bite of her crust, Sara sighed. "This didn't end up being stupid stuff."

Grissom nodded. "You're right. I've decided that the trick is this: it's not nearly as scary if you back your way into the conversation as if you take a flying leap into it."

"Interesting imagery," she commented.

"Not my point." He popped the last bit of his slice into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed, then continued, "It's true, though – we just had a serious conversation without either of us having a panic attack, because we went into it under the label 'stupid stuff' and not 'important stuff that needs to be discussed'."

"But did we decide anything?"

"What's to decide? Here, I'll teach you something I learned through years of frustration." He leaned across the table, looking like he was about to impart some incredible tidbit of wisdom. "Conversations don't always have to lead somewhere, and decisions don't always have to be made out loud."

"That's deep. More of your Grissom-Buddah-Zen philosophy, huh?"

"No." He shook his head firmly. "It's not philosophy. It's reality – and the only reason I recognize that reality is because I've made enough mistakes that I blundered into it using no wisdom whatsoever."

She cocked her head to the side, studying him for a long second before she nodded as though she had reached a conclusion. "Ok."

"'Ok'?"

"Yes, 'ok.' I accept that what you said makes sense. And it makes me feel slightly less guilty about this." She gestured toward their table. "About this situation. About any other, I don't think so."

"Like I said, Sara – words don't have to lead anywhere but where they go."

She gave him a small smile. "'Deep Thoughts by Gil Grissom.' Do you make a pocket guide to life?"

"Give me a few more years to turn that one out," he said with an answering smile. "I've still got a lot to learn."


	31. Truth or Consequences

"Are you always this selfless?" Grissom asked an hour later as he and Sara gathered their supplies in preparation for another burglary. "Have you sent yourself on any interesting cases yet, at all?"

"Yes," she said. "I'll have you know that I took a murder the week before you came."

"It's been almost three weeks since you worked a case that actually required thought? Has your brain atrophied yet?"

"You tell me – you've been listening to me try to communicate all day."

Grissom looked thoughtful. "Well, it seems to be in relatively good working order. But really, Sara, if you don't challenge yourself then you'll end up hurting both yourself and your team, rather than helping them like you think you're doing."

"Yeah," Sara said, looking skeptical, "but I have plenty of experience with serious crime. I don't need to spend time concentrating on it. These guys, on the other hand, have probably been lucky if they've seen one murder each in their careers. I have to get them prepared to do this for themselves, or else when I . . ." Her words abruptly cut off. "They just need to know how to do things," she told him flatly.

" 'When you ' what, Sara?"

"Nothing. Slip of the tongue," she said dismissively, and grabbed another jar of fingerprint power to toss into her kit.

Grissom was unconvinced, but he knew that pressing her right now wouldn't get him any farther. "Alright." He looked into his own kit, nodded, then looked back up at her. "I'm ready if you are."

"Good. Let's get moving."

The burglary really was too easy, Grissom thought again as he packed the last fingerprint into an evidence envelope later that night. The fingerprints would take them exactly where they needed to go, with no puzzling required. He sighed, wishing that Sara would open herself up to him mentally as much as she had physically in the past few days.

God, he wanted a cigarette. Taking a deep breath and pursing his lips, he tried to focus on anything but that urge. It worked for a few seconds, until a voice from the doorway made him jump and scattered whatever concentration he had managed to gather. He looked up to see who had screwed up his latest attempt.

"Grissom?" Mark asked again, voice low and furtive.

"I'm right here, Sellers. And speak up." Grissom still couldn't make himself like the man who was so close to Sara. He fought a constant battle to keep himself from thinking he had been replaced by Mark.

Mark took a few steps into the room and took a seat on the waist-high counter, facing Grissom. "Can I ask you something about Sara?"

Red flags went up all over the place in Grissom's mind. Why did Mark want to know about Sara? "Depends on what it is. You ought to know that I won't gossip about her."

"I'm not asking for gossip. I'm just trying to get a handle on things."

Grissom shrugged. "Fine. So ask."

"Sara left Las Vegas and moved out here because of you, am I right?"

This was not the sort of question he felt comfortable answering. "I told you I wasn't going to gossip about Sara, Mark. Do you have something to ask that's more mature than junior-high level, or are you wasting my time?"

Grissom's hostility interested Mark. Always fascinated by the convoluted ways of the human mind, he had, for a time, considered applying for the FBI's Behavioral Sciences Unit before deciding that he'd prefer to not have lives hanging on what he thought a given person was thinking. He'd retained the instinct, however, and right now it was telling him that Grissom had some sort of reason for disliking him.

"Ok," he tried again. "Let me start with something more basic: tell me why you don't like me."

Grissom hadn't expected that question. "I don't dislike you," he managed in what was hopefully a confident tone. "I haven't known you long enough to like or dislike you."

"Nevertheless, you don't like me. In fact, the only one of us that you seem to really like is Sophie. The other guys you ignore for the most part. I, however, get the scowls and abruptness. I'd like to know why." When Grissom, predictably, just scowled at him, Mark added, "My question has nothing to do with Sara, so you can't use her as an excuse not to answer."

"I don't need an excuse to not answer!" Grissom exclaimed hotly. "I have no obligation to tell you anything!"

Mark blinked. "…Or does it?"

"Huh?"

"I had said my question had nothing to do with Sara, but listening to you, I'm not so sure now."

The cigarette craving hit Grissom again, this time even harder. His fingers clenched and his face, if possible, tightened even more. "I don't know why I'm still sitting here," he said, gritting his teeth. "In fact, I won't sit here any longer." He pushed himself up off of the couch he had been sitting on, snatched up his evidence envelopes, and walked past Mark and out of the room.

Mark thought for a few seconds. Yep, he decided, the reason Grissom disliked him definitely had something to do with Sara. He wondered what – had he offended her in some way, and she'd told Grissom? Was Grissom angry that Mark had been Sara's most frequent partner before he arrived? That sounded almost right, he decided . . . it had to be something like that.

Still pondering, he retraced Grissom's path out of the room. Well damn, now he just _had_ to know what this was all about! He was going to have to corner the man again and drag the truth out of him.

Grissom handed over the last of the envelopes to the evidence clerk and turned to leave. He needed a cigarette, just absolutely _needed _ it. Quitting was hard enough without all the stressors going on in his life right now. Especially the one named Mark. He didn't want to interact with Sara's . . . Sara's what? . . . bosom buddy, let alone get into a meaningful conversation with him. He hoped that he'd been sufficiently mean to keep Mark away from him from now on.


	32. Smoke and mirrors

**A/N: **As you may have noticed, I'm back! I'm sorry for leaving you guys hanging for so long…I'll try not to do it again, but I can't guarantee. Send me writing vibes or something to motivate me!****

Mark pulled Sam aside a few minutes later and began to pick the other man's brain about Grissom. "Do you know what's going on with him and Sara?"

            Sam poked his glasses back into place in a gesture that was oddly out of sync with his trendy look, and considered the question for a moment. "Sophie thinks they've got something going on, I know that much. And probably Jack thinks so too, since he and Sophie spend so much time together that they ought to be sharing their brainwaves by now. Me, though . . . I don't really know. I haven't had much chance to interact with the guy, you know?"

Mark nodded. "Yeah, I know. It's driving me nuts, though."

"Why? I didn't think you were exactly the gossipy type. You being 'Mr. Maturity' and all."

"I'm _not_ the gossipy type, thank you very much. It just so happens that when a guy goes out of his way to demonstrate how much he dislikes me, I have this tendency to want to find out what I did to piss him off in the first place."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "And you think Grissom doesn't like you because of Sara? Like you're moving in on his territory or something?" He let out a low whistle. "Man, either you're paranoid or I'm missing some major drama that's been going on here. What are you gonna do to find out why he hates you, then?"

"Beats me. When he stormed out on me a little while ago, I was going to follow him, but I saw a pack of cigarettes in his hand and I didn't want to have to be the one to tell Sara he's cheating."

"Are you _sure_ you don't have something going on with Sara yourself?"

"No! For the last time, there's nothing between me and Sara, and I don't think either of us wants there to be! Now, can we stop questioning _my_ motives and move back to talking about Grissom's?"

"Hey, no offense intended," Sam said, shrugging. "I just think it's weird that it didn't occur to you that you don't have to tell Sara everything, especially things like her boyfriend smoking."

"You think he's her boyfriend?"

Sam threw up his hands. "I give up. We're going in circles. To review: I have no idea what's going on between Sara and Grissom. I don't think you're after Sara. I don't think anyone in this building is her boyfriend at the moment. Now can I get back to work?"

"Sor-ry!" Mark stepped aside to allow Sam to pass him, then returned to his thoughts.

All this talk of smoking had Sam craving a cigarette of his own, and since he figured he was about the only person left in the building who hadn't quit and wasn't currently trying to, he walked to his locker and retrieved his pack with minimal guilt.

He contemplated Mark's questions as he walked toward the back door. Grissom did seem to want to be with Sara a lot, maybe a little more than normal – but then, so did Mark, at least lately. Who said Sara was interested in anyone in the lab, anyway? Maybe this was all just the workings of two paranoid male minds.

Sam hit the override button on the emergency exit door and pushed it open, intending to head for the dumpster, his usual smoking spot. The spot was already occupied, however, and even from the back he could tell that he was looking at one overstressed, slightly-past-his-prime criminalist.

"Hi," Sam said as he came up alongside Grissom. "Mind some company?"

Grissom shrugged dispassionately. "Whatever you want."

Lighting up, Sam took the opportunity to watch Grissom from the corner of his eye. The older man was smoking with a singular concentration he didn't recall having seen in anyone but criminals who were having their "last free smoke" before doing jail time. Something had to be bothering him, Sam thought, then immediately checked himself. What business of his was it if Grissom was bothered or not?

"I think you're ok," Grissom said suddenly, startling Sam out of his rumination. He gestured at the newcomer's cigarette and repeated, "I think you're ok. It appears to be well and truly lit."

"Oops." Sam flipped his lighter closed and inhaled, closing his eyes to savor the content a first drag always brought. "Don't understand how everyone's so eager to quit, anyway – I'd be way more insane than I am if I weren't a smoker," he added lightly after exhaling.

"But you'd be less susceptible to cancer."

"Well yeah, there is that. But I'm young, and I get physicals every year for work."

Grissom's eyebrows rose slightly. "I haven't heard such a carefree attitude about smoking in a long time."

"Yeah, well, I'm a carefree kind of guy."

Grissom looked at his own cigarette, silently smoldering between his first and middle fingers. "This isn't the best thing to be carefree about, if you don't mind me pointing it out. There's a reason everyone wants to quit, and it has something to do with wanting to live past 40."

Sam glanced deliberately at Grissom's hand. "You don't seem too concerned about it yourself."

That seemed to catch Grissom by surprise, and he looked back down at his hand, then up at Sam. "I'm concerned. I'm just very stupid."

His blunt honestly surprised Sam. "Oh" was all he could think of to say.

"Don't think I'm happy about standing here," Grissom continued, "because I guarantee you I'm not."

"So then . . . why are you standing here with a cigarette in your hand?"

A bitter smile. "Because like I said, I'm dumb. I quit years and years ago, then picked it back up a couple months ago when I was having a bad week." He stopped, fighting the urge to change "week" to "year," then picked up again: "I figured I couldn't get addicted again in a day."

"And you were wrong?"

"And I was _definitely_ wrong," Grissom said, nodding.

Sam tried to look casual as he asked, "What kicked it off? Just a general bad week, or something specific?"

Grissom's eyes narrowed and he looked closely at Sam for a few seconds. Sam did his best to look harmless, and it must have worked because eventually Grissom said, "A specific event screwed me up, which yielded a week that got worse and worse."

"Dude," Sam said with a wave of his cigarette, forgetting for a moment that he was trying to get Grissom to talk, not himself, "I know _that_ feeling. I almost got married a few years ago . . . then my fiancée broke it off a week before the wedding. The whole week after she did that was a disaster. I couldn't focus on my work, so I kept screwing up simple stuff like labeling evidence. By the day of the wedding – or non-wedding, really – I was just, like . . . disaster. Useless. Got myself crazy drunk that night – Mark and Jack had to come to the bar and drag my blubbering self home around four in the morning." He shook his head at what he now viewed as his own stupidity. "It only made me more depressed the next morning when I woke up with no wife _and_ a hangover."

Grissom cocked his head to the side, drawn in by Sam's openness. "I'm sorry."

"S'ok. I got over it. Well actually, I got over _her_. She wasn't as great as I had thought she was."

"They never are."

"Nah, I wouldn't say that," Sam said. "Some of them are even greater than you might think they are. But I don't think you really want to hear about my love life. What about you? Did you lose a fiancée too?"

The bitter smile made another appearance. "No, not a fiancée. Not really even a girlfriend, either. Just someone who was . . . really important to me. She got fed up with me and one day she just . . . up and left. I think I'm still in the middle of that bad week, and it's been two months."

"That sucks," Sam said sympathetically. "Sometimes it feels even worse when you don't have a claim on them to begin with. Feels like you're not allowed to be hurt."

Grissom gave him a look of surprised approval. "True. Maybe that's what's been eating at me." He paused, looking like he had lost his train of thought for a moment. "But to get back to the topic at hand, I just figured I had nothing important left to lose anyway, so I might as well smoke if I wanted."

Making quotation marks in the air, Sam smiled. "Insert platitude about how you have plenty to lose here." He dropped his hands, then added, "But seriously – do you still think that, or are you just stuck with the monkey on your back again?"

"Little of both."  Grissom's cigarette was almost burned down, and he flicked a bit more ash off of it. "Seems like the only times I get the really bad cravings are the times when something happens to remind me how far gone from me she is."

Sam took another drag on his own cigarette and gave Grissom a penetrating look. "Did she tell you she was done with you? Or did she just go?"

"She just left one day. Like I said, there wasn't anything going on that would obligate her to tell me." Grissom flicked another bit of ash away, then dropped his butt to the ground and crushed it out.

"No wonder you're like this, then. If I were you, I'd be demanding she tell me what the hell was going on before I left her alone."

Grissom's smile this time seemed more cryptic than bitter. "Technically, I don't think you could exactly say I left her alone."

"Oh? Do tell!"

Grissom shook his head. "Probably not a good idea. But thanks for the conversation, Sam. I'll look for you when I come out to smoke in the future."

"Ok then." Sam looked at his almost-gone cigarette, then back up at Grissom. "Talk to you later."


	33. Don't turn around

"You were talking to him. I saw you!" Mark's tone sounded almost accusing when he planted himself in Sam's path later that night.

"Smokers do that, Mark. I know you quit and all, but you should remember that much."

"Did he say anything about me? What did you find out?"

Purposely ignoring the urgency in Mark's voice, Sam lounged against the hallway wall and regarded the other man. He flicked a strand of hair out of his face, then decided that that wasn't adequate and set to work elaborately retying his ponytail. It was amusing to watch Mark's glower get darker and darker, he thought, wondering how long he could keep it up for.

"Well? Are you just gonna ignore me?"

"I wasn't ignoring you," Sam replied in a mock-innocent voice. "I was just fixing my hair."

"Well it's fixed now, so tell me what I want to know."

Sam thought about this for a moment. Grissom had been surprisingly – perhaps shockingly – open with him when they spoke, and he wasn't really sure he would want someone revealing such information if the situations were reversed.

"Well?" Mark said again, leaning forward threateningly.

"I think . . ." Sam began, then paused to arrange his words. "I think that you can safely assume he's mean to you because he thinks you're moving in on Sara. And I'm not going to say any more than that."

"But there was more?" Mark immediately switched to a more ingratiating tone and stance. "C'mon, man, tell me. Sophie and Jack told when _they_ got information on him."

Sam shook his head. "No, I'm serious. The guy was too open for his own good, and I'm not spreading around the stuff he told me because some of it's . . . sensitive. I told you the part you need to know, the part that applies to you."

"Dude!"

"No."

"But Sam . . ."

"No, Mark. Take what you can get. Maybe you'll find out about the other stuff at some point in the future when Grissom tells you himself."

Mark's eyes widened. "So he's gonna talk to me?" he asked excitedly.

"Oh, for god's sake! You _are_ turning into a gossipmonger. Shoo!" Making corresponding shooing motion with his hands, Sam herded Mark into the nearest doorway and then quickly continued on his way to the DNA lab.

Grissom couldn't believe he'd just spilled his guts to a twenty-something kid. This was going to end badly, he decided; it couldn't end any other way, considering that the CSIs talked about him and Sara to begin with.

He had managed to sneak into the layout room without being spotted, and was sitting there with his cheek resting in his hand when Sara found him.

"Gris?"

Grissom's head snapped up and, realizing he'd been caught doing nothing, he winced. "Sorry. Do you need me?"

Moving closer, she frowned. "You smell like smoke."

Thinking fast, Grissom said the first thing that came to mind: "I was, uh, talking to Sam while he smoked."

Sara raised an eyebrow and gave him a skeptical look. "You were talking to Sam?"

"Uh-huh." It sounded like she might believe him, Grissom thought with relief.

"What did you talk to him about?"

Caught off guard, Grissom could only stutter something meaningless and watch Sara's skeptical expression change to a downright suspicious one.

"You didn't talk to him after all," she said after a moment, "did you?"

Something he could give her an honest answer about! "I did too talk to him!"

"What is this, second grade?" She sat across the table and regarded him with amusement. " 'Did too,' 'did not'? Come on, Grissom. You have no reason to lie to me. Tell me why you smell like smoke, it'll be easier than trying to keep your lies straight."

"I didn't lie." Technically. "I was talking to Sam while he smoked."

Shifting her eyes to the ceiling in exasperation, Sara sighed. "I'm sure that's true. But what's the part you're not telling me? This isn't the end of the world, Gris. If you slipped, just grit your teeth and admit it."

"I didn't!"

"Ok, fine," she said, waving her hands dismissively. "You didn't lie, then. When you want to tell me what's going on with you, I'll be in my office." With that, she stood up and made her way to the door, not looking back at him.

"Sara . . ."

Still not turning around, she paused in the doorway. "Yes?"

Grissom stared sadly at her back, hurt by the fact that she wouldn't look at him. When he didn't say anything, Sara moved again for the door. Grissom felt his willpower snapping, thread by thread. "I slipped."

Sara finally turned to face him. "I figured."

"I'm sorry."

"I figured that too." With a sigh, she walked back to the table and sat down across from him. "For a reason? Or you just got a random craving?"

"Well, it wasn't a reason like, 'I'm going to get revenge by coating my lungs with tar.' But there was an impetus, I guess you could say."

"And . . . ? I assume it has to do with me, considering your attempts to escape this conversation?"

"Doesn't everything have to do with you these days?" Grissom asked tiredly.

That gave Sara pause. "Uh . . . it does?"

"Yes, Sara." He held a hand out to her entreatingly. "I came here for you. I'm staying here for you. My emotions might as well be dictated by you."

Sitting back in her chair, Sara frowned. "I'm not too sure I like that idea."

He shrugged. "It's the truth. Quitting smoking is just an excuse for me to be here."

"Grissom . . ."

"I know," he sighed. "You don't know what you want you want. I'm just here as a convenience for you."

"Grissom."

"And I'm so emotionally invested in this that I'm staying here even though I know that I'm getting nothing accomplished – I haven't stopped smoking, I haven't made any headway with you . . ."

"Grissom!" Sara slapped the palm of her hand down on the table, making herself jump at the noise. "Enough! You make it sound like I'm using you! And if you're still smoking, then it's not my fault that you are."

He shook his head. "You _are_ using me. I'm an extra pair of hands to put on cases, and something to divert you when you're bored." What was he saying? Grissom was horrified by the words coming out of his mouth. Ten minutes ago he had been telling Sam how he was still determined to get the girl, and now that he had "the girl" in front of him, he was going to let loose on a rant and screw things up yet again?

On the other hand, he thought, everything he was telling her was true. He _was_ beginning to feel used by Sara. He had come to New Jersey to be with her, and he'd believed that he'd be happy with any circumstances he could wrangle . . . But now he found himself losing patience. Nothing was happening, except for him picking fights with Mark. He'd kissed her yesterday, for the first time, and he'd thought that was a huge step; then, an hour later, she had made it abundantly clear that the kiss was not to be discussed or repeated.

Really, what was he doing here?

"Hey," Sara said quietly, leaning in and putting her face near his, trying to make eye contact with him. "What are you thinking? You've been quiet for a good minute."

His face less than six inches from hers, he studied her eyes for a moment. Was there anything there but confusion? Any affection, desire, concern? He didn't think so, and that realization, more than anything else that had happened in the past few days, made him decide that something had to give.

Sara waved a hand between their faces. "Helloooo."

Grissom's eyes snapped to hers. "Do you care about me?"

She blinked. "Huh? Of course I do."

"You told me you were 'almost in love' with me for years."

Unsure where he was going with this, Sara said only, "Yes."

"But you're not now."

"Well, I . . ."

"We're less close now than we were in Las Vegas, and back then I hardly even talked to you."

"Grissom . . ."

"For every step I move closer to you, you move five steps back. Something is wrong with that."

Sara shook her head in semi-exasperation. "What do you want me to do, Grissom? Declare my undying love? Because I can't do that."

"I know you can't." His eyes roamed around the room for a moment before focusing back on her. "I know you can't," he repeated. "But you can't say you would be broken-hearted if I left here right now, can you?"

Sara's head was spinning. She didn't know what Grissom wanted from her, but she was pretty sure it wasn't a declaration of love, at least right now. "I don't know. . . I don't understand what you want from me right now, Grissom."

"Yeah," he said shortly, pushing back his chair and standing up. "I know."

She watched him in disbelief. "Wait! Where are you going? I don't know what the hell you're trying to tell me, Gris!"

"The ball's in your court now," he said as he walked to the door. "I'm not going to push you where you don't want to go. I'll see you at the end of shift."

Sara could only sputter in confusion as she watched him walk away from her.


	34. Everything feels wrong

Part 34

"Jack..." Sophie whispered. "I don't think we should be doing this."

"Do you want to find out what's going on or not?"

"You know I do, but I do _not_ think that hanging out in broom closets is the way to go about it. People are going to think we're having an affair or something!"

She could see Jack's smile as said, "Technically, I don't it could be an affair, since neither of us is seeing anyone else."

"That wasn't my point and you know it," she hissed.

"Would it really be so bad, even if people did think we were seeing each other?"

"Jack," Sophie said in exasperation, "if they see us come out of this closet together, 'seeing' is about the last thing they're going to think we're doing together!"

"What would you prefer we have done, Sophie? Hang out in the middle of the room while Grissom and Sara fight about who loves who?"

"We could have just walked out before they saw us."

"Well, we didn't." He shifted his weight, trying to relieve some of the numbness in his left leg where Sophie was pressed against it in an attempt to avoid being impaled on a mop handle. "And now we have to get ourselves out of here unobtrusively."

"Like _that's_ gonna happen."

"Shhh." Jack slapped a hand over Sophie's mouth just as Mark and Sara walked into the room.

"Look," Mark was saying, "I just want to know what the hell's going on around me. Your friend's acting like a child and refusing to speak to me; you're suddenly 'too busy' to take a minute to talk to me. What is going on with you people?"

"Nothing," Sara said in a strangely flat voice. "Nothing is going on. I'll tell Grissom to lay off you."

Mark appeared surprised at the concession. "You know I'm worried about you, right? I'm talking as your friend, here. Ever since he came here, you're a mess...maybe it's time you decided whether you're more interested in him or your job."

Though Sara was no longer in the sight line the door crack offered, the hidden pair could still hear her gasp at Mark's harsh words. "Mark, that's not fair. I'm doing my job just fine, and if I maybe don't have as much time to socialize with you guys as I used to, it shouldn't be the end of the world."

A sigh. "I'm not trying to fight with you, Sara. I'm just saying I'm worried. I don't like that this guy arrives and suddenly you're not happy."

"I'm perfectly happy."

"Then why won't you tell me what's wrong? Grissom seems to think I'm trying to steal his property every time I talk to you..."

"Shhh," Jack whispered in Sophie's ear as they heard this comment and she stiffened. "Listen now. Discuss later." He felt her nod against his shoulder, and went back to listening.

"Ok, that's over the line," Sara was saying. "You're my friend, Mark, but I'm not going to allow you to abuse others. If you have such a big problem with Grissom, then just stay away from him and don't pick fights."

"Pick . . . what? I just _told_ you that _I_ am not the one picking the fights! It's him!"

"Give the man a break. He's not from here, he's here only because of me, and maybe it just seems to him like if I get too absorbed in other people then I won't want him here anymore." She shrugged. "I don't know. Just the two of you keep away from each other, and maybe we can all live in peace."

Jack caught a glimpse of her straight figure as she left the room, followed shortly by the sound of a fist being banged against a table and a groan from Mark.

Sara looked up from her desk when there was a quiet knock on her doorframe ten minutes before shift ended. "This seems backwards," said Grissom from the doorway. "Usually it's me behind the desk and you asking for an audience."

Sara hardly looked up from her paperwork. "Come in and shut the door." The tension surrounding her was almost palpable.

Grissom did as he was asked, and took a seat across from Sara. "What's wrong?"

"You mean besides the fact that you're planning on ignoring me in some way I haven't yet identified, Mark is seriously considering not speaking to me and/or injuring you, and I have eight cases to close before I can go home?"

One at a time, Grissom thought. "Why isn't Mark speaking to you?"

"Because I stood up for you. At least I think I did, but then, I won't know whether that's true until you tell me what's been going on between you two."

"Excuse me?"

"He said you've been acting like his existence is a personal affront to you. Specifically, that you seem to be giving him the impression that I'm your property."

"That's ridiculous."

"Is it? You haven't exactly been Mr. Friendly, Grissom - not to any of the men here. Only to Sophie - which would make sense, since you known I'm not likely to run off with another woman."

"Sara."

"Tell me what's wrong, Gris. I can't straighten this out if I don't know where it's going bad."

Grissom shook his head. "Not here. Let's go home."

"Ok everyone _wait_!" shouted Will over the din filling the break room. "Would someone please put together a coherent sentence and tell me what you're all babbling about?"

"Far as I can tell," offered Walter, "Grissom hates Mark, Mark's mad at Sara, and Sophie and Jack have been keeping secrets from the rest of us, including the above-mentioned two. Does that about sum it up?" he asked, looking around the room.

"We have _not_ been keeping secrets!" chorused Jack and Sophie. "We just happened to be present when it happened, and took advantage of the situation," added Sophie.

"What _is_ the situation? Does anyone know actual details?" attempted Will.

"Something is going on between Grissom and Sara," Mark said firmly.

"As if we hadn't all figured that out already? I probably know more details about the two of them than all of you combined. That doesn't explain why everyone's so excited about it."

"_Because_," Jack said, sounding like he was talking to an idiot, "things have come to a head. Grissom's not talking to Sara, Sara's not talking to Mark -"

"We don't know that!" interrupted Mark.

"-and no work is getting done around here because everyone's too busy fighting!" finished Jack triumphantly.

"So? What am I supposed to do about it?"

"I don't know," said Sophie, "but something _has_ to get done."

"Ok, we're home." Sara slammed the door of her apartment behind Grissom. "Now tell me what the hell's going on."

"Mark thinks you belong to him."

"I don't think so, Grissom. He says the same thing about you. In case you hadn't noticed, I don't _belong_ to anyone. I thought I made that clear the other day."

The pizza shop fiasco, he thought. Well, at least he wasn't the only one who'd made a fool of themselves. "How did you make that clear, exactly?"

She rolled her eyes. "Don't start with me. I know you understood me. How about you tell me what the hell _you_ meant by your little 'the ball's in your court, Sara' thing."

"I meant that I chased you from Las Vegas to here, and I'm sick of chasing. If you're interested in pursuing...us....then you're going to have to be the one to do it. I'm tired of being shoved aside and taken advantage of."

"I have never, ever taken advantage of you! I couldn't if I tried."

"Oh yeah?" He glanced toward the futon, still rumpled from the previous afternoon. "Seems to me that you have."

Sara followed his gaze and sighed. "That was just...a thing."

" 'A thing'? That's helpful."

"Grissom, it has nothing to do with..."

"Exactly! That's my _point_! If I listen to you, nothing that's happened since I came here has any bearing on the reason I came here to begin with!"

Sara stilled, surprised at his vehemence. "That's a stupid thing to say. Of course everything that's happened has been for a reason."

"Oh yeah? Then why don't you tell me why you kissed me this morning, when it's clearly something you wish you hadn't done."

"Because I felt like it," she shot back.

"Which only proves my point. Nothing you do with me means anything to you. I told you before, I'm not here to be a convenience to you, or a spare set of hands, or a....a...midnight diversion!"

"Fine. I'm sorry I did it. Does that make you happy?"

"No!" he shouted, losing the war with his temper. "No, it doesn't make me happy to know that you're _sorry_ you _kissed _me!" Tipping his head back and trying to regain some composure, he tried again. "I came out here because I thought I might have a chance with you, Sara. If that's not true, just tell me and I'll be on my way. You made it clear today that you don't feel the same way about me that you used to."

"I don't..."

"_Please_, Sara. Just tell me the truth for once."

She seemed to deflate. "You want the truth? Fine. Here's the truth: you've been unreachable for so long that it scares me to find you suddenly right there. It scares me to think that I've already gotten burned once for coming back to you when you asked. It scares me that if I give in to you, then I won't know where I belong. Vegas owns you, Grissom, and I'm starting to think Jersey owns me. It would only make things worse to allow myself to fall back under your spell and then have to choose between two things I love."

"I'm not here to tear you away from the thing you love," Grissom said quietly. "I thought you might be able to be happy with me. If you can't be, then I'm not going to be the one to pull you away from here."

"I said there were two things I love, Gris. No matter what I choose, I'll lose one of them."

"You don't think you could be happy in Las Vegas?"

"I don't know," Sara said, defeated. "I don't know anymore."


	35. The touch of your hand

Grissom was in his pajamas, tossing a pillow onto the futon, when Sara emerged from her bedroom later that day. He paused, looked up at her, then very deliberately looked back down at his bed and started arranging the blankets.

"I get the hint, Grissom," Sara informed him. "You're mad at me. I know. I just…wanted to ask you a favor."

Lowering himself onto the mattress, he looked at her enquiringly. "Oh? And what might that be?"

"Could we…sit?"

Looking pointedly down at himself, Grissom said, "I'm already sitting. Got any other requests?"

"Not like that. I mean can we just...I don't know. Just sit together and not talk and not fight?"

"I was getting ready to go to sleep. I have a long day of unpaid work to do tomorrow."

"Would you just stop? You're pissed, I get the message. Fine, give me the silent treatment - I don't want you to talk to me. I just want you to touch me."

Grissom's eyes must have bugged out almost as much as he felt like they did, because his reaction brought a suppressed smile to Sara's face. "Not like that. I'm not going to rape you. I just literally want to be touching someone. Holding hands, leaning against him." She paused. "Ok I didn't mean 'someone.' I meant you. I don't know how to explain it better."

"You want me to...touch you. Non-sexually. For no reason whatsoever?" he asked dubiously.

Giving up on trying to explain herself, Sara sat herself on the mattress next to him, moving slowly to allow him plenty of time to pull away. When he didn't, she scooted closer and tentatively laid her hand over his.

"Sara," Grissom said, pulling his hand away, "you know that conversation we had today about you using me?" When Sara nodded warily, he raised his eyebrows at her hand and continued, "You're doing it again."

"I'm not!" Frustrated, she stood up again and looked down at him. "I am not using you. We fought, Gris, and I'm upset by it, and I want to have contact with you so I know you don't suddenly hate me or something."

"I don't hate you. You obviously know I couldn't hate you even if I worked at it. I fail to see your point."

Infuriated by his purposeful obtuseness, she gritted her teeth and said, "Fine, then. Enjoy your sleep," then turned her back on him and headed for her bedroom.

"Sara."

Pausing in the doorway, she looked back at him and said, without allowing him to speak, "Maybe I screwed up a little - _maybe_. But that still doesn't give you the right to take pleasure in shooting me down when I try to make things better." With that, she moved inside the room and shut the door, perhaps a little too hard.

Grissom sat for a minute, thinking about what had just happened. Had he taken pleasure in it? Ok, well, a little - but he didn't know why that was so wrong, when she had enjoyed using him so much.

But he was losing sight of his goal, he acknowledged after another minute. He was getting so caught up in who was mad at who for doing what to whom that he was forgetting that his ultimate goal was to win Sara's affections, not to win the battles they fought. With a sigh, he stood up and walked to the kitchen, where he hunted out a bag of popcorn and put it in the microwave. He'd bring a peace offering when he went to her this time.

He was _making himself a snack_, Sara realized. He was sitting in her living room and nonchalantly cooking himself some popcorn, proud of having browbeaten her into silence. Disgusted, she snatched up the t-shirt she hadn't put on yet for fear of embarrassing him were he to walk in and apologize, and yanked off the light sweater she'd been wearing. It was tossed into the corner, soon joined by her bra and trousers as Sara, more hurt than she allowed herself to acknowledge, prepared to spend a night without the human contact she had tried to ask for.

Her first thought when she stood up from selecting a book from her nightstand and saw the doorknob slowly turning was "Oh for god's sake, not again." Her second was "This is his problem, not mine." Pretending she had seen nothing, she settled on her bed, leaning against two pillows, and opened the book to where she had left off. She heard Grissom's intake of breath as he saw her state of partial undress and, without looking up, she said, "In or out. Pick one."

"Huh?" was all Grissom could manage as he realized that he'd done it again, and this time it had been completely his own fault. Sara was lying on her bed in a t-shirt and, apparently, nothing else (though he refused to stare long enough to confirm that suspicion), and he hadn't even bothered to knock this time. He had no excuse!

She looked up and said testily, "I said, 'in or out.' Decide whether your precious sensibilities are offended and either sit down or leave me alone." That said, she returned her attention to Clive Cussler's latest.

Grissom inched forward, feeling like he was definitely missing either the lesson she intended to teach or the punchline she intended to convey. "I figured you'd be in bed already," he tried to explain, holding the bowl of popcorn out to her. "And covered up, I mean."

She was sick of him and of this. "If seeing me in my pajamas offends you so much, get the hell out. This is my house and this is how I sleep." She didn't reach for the popcorn.

Taking a moment to compose himself, Grissom looked at her face. "Can we call a truce, please?"

"You're the one who's mad at me, Grissom, remember? I'm 'using' you, and you're too good to listen to me apologize or even be friendly with me."

"You wanted me to touch you," he said tentatively, offering the popcorn again.

Taking the bowl from him with a sigh, she set it on the nightstand. "I did, yes. However, I've changed my mind since then."

"It's only been five minutes."

"You've changed your mind on bigger things in less time. Don't deny me the same right."

"I'm not trying to deny you anything."

Sara snorted. "Could have fooled me. Go away, Grissom - you've made your point multiple times tonight." Picking up the plastic bowl, she added, "And take your food with you."

Taking a deep breath, Grissom overcame his almost-overpowering embarrassment and forced himself to walk further into the room. "I'm not trying to make a point. I'm just going to try to give you what you asked for."

Her attention caught, Sara set the book face-down on her lap. "And why would you do that, when you just spent ten minutes insulting me and telling me that I was just using you as some sort of sex toy?"

"I didn't say anything about a sex toy."

"Grissom! You're ridiculous. Look," she said more calmly, "things are getting worse, not better. Maybe we should think about sending you home. I haven't even managed to get you off the cigarettes, and you've been here for two weeks."

"I don't want to go home, Sara," he said quietly, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed. "I like being here with you."

"You could have _fucking_ fooled me!" Sara bit out, completely fed up with his mood swings. "If not for your sake, maybe you need to leave for mine. Since you've been here, no one from Vegas has contacted me, my boss read me the riot act over having a guest here, and my staff is beginning to doubt my competence...hell, _I'm_ beginning to doubt my competence."

"Who doesn't think you're competent?" he asked harshly.

"Doesn't matter." She turned onto her side, so that her stomach was almost touching his hip as he struggled to keep from losing his tenuous grip on the bed. "I'm sick of this, Grissom. At least when I was in Vegas I knew the score - you weren't interested; I was. Nowadays, we seem to be trading those positions daily. I'm just so tired of it. The last thing I need in my life is more instability."

Grissom was out of arguments. Instead of answering her, he picked up the remote control to her TV and pressed the power button.

"Do _not_ tell me you just invaded my bedroom so you could watch my TV instead of the one you already have in front of your futon."

In answer, he pushed himself further onto the bed, forcing Sara to either move over to accommodate him or end up with him on top of her. "Nope."

"Then what are you doing?"

"Touching you," he said simply, pulling up on Sara's shoulders to lift her off the pillows. He slipped an arm under her neck, then allowed her to lie back again. With the hand that was now under her head, he brushed a lock of hair off her cheek. "How's this?"

"Grissom..."

"Shh. My turn to be apologetic until we turn the tables again."

"We shouldn't be fighting so much. There's someone wrong with that."

"Sara," he said seriously, looking down at her, "I distinctly remember hearing you say that you wanted to touch, not talk."

She opened her mouth to respond, then realized that she had, indeed, said that, and closed it again. Instead of speaking, she laid her head back against his hand, savoring the warmth it provided, and at the same time snatched the remote control from his hand. Flipping through the channels, she settled on Court TV, which was airing an episode of Forensic Files.

"For heaven's sake," Grissom said, surprised at her choice, "don't we get enough of this at work?"

"It's good for relaxing. Lets me go on autopilot," she explained. "Ok, now officially no more talking from either of us." She smiled slightly and relaxed as Grissom's hand continued to stroke her cheek. Unsure of where to put her own hand, which was trapped between their bodies, she laid her arm back toward their heads and rubbed at his five o'clock shadow with one finger. When this elicited no protest from him, she continued while turning slightly onto her side, facing him, and simply watching him.

"What?" he asked, bemused by her study of him.

"Shh," she ordered. Her hand drifted from his chin to his cheek and then back down, tracing his jawline.

Grissom could feel the hairs on the back his neck beginning to stand up from her gentle yet somehow intense touch. Growing more confident, he allowed his own hand to move downward to cup her shoulder, rubbing it gently and urging her closer to him.

The more he experienced it, the more he liked this no-talking-just-touching thing. It was as though now that they'd both shut their mouths, their hands could express the tenderness they felt for each other that their voices wouldn't.

He felt the shoulder he was touching lift slightly off the bed and found that Sara was turning more toward him. He was still flat on his back, while she was now almost completely on her side. She carefully switched hands so that the hand that had been touching him was now supporting her head while her other hand, which had been dormant, was used to touch him, and trailed the fingers of this hand lightly through his hair.

Shivering at her touch, he began, "Sar-" but hushed himself this time without being told. Uncertain of what to do now, he reached for the popcorn on her nightstand and set the bowl between them. Sara, distracted from her examination of his hair, looked down at the plastic thing now separating them and then looked back up at him, smirking. She took a handful of popcorn and raised her hand to his mouth. Grissom shook his head "no," but she refused to move her hand and began to pry his lips open.

Caught between laughter and distress, Grissom allowed her to stuff the popcorn into his mouth, then promptly reached down for his own handful, which he fed to his attacker. To his shock, instead of allowing him to have his hand back after he had put the food in her mouth, Sara caught and held it while she chewed and swallowed, then raised it to her lips. Afraid she was going to bite his fingers as revenge, Grissom tried to retrieve the digits, but Sara kept her hold and, closing the gap between it and her lips, kissed his fingers lightly.

His eyes widened. She had kissed his hand in an almost worshipful manner. What was he supposed to read from that? Sara was simply looking up at him, smiling slightly. For lack of anything better to do, Grissom picked up the bowl again and set it on the nightstand next to him. She was still just looking at him, and he allowed himself the indulgence of reaching over and cupping her cheek with his free hand. It was a giddy feeling, he reflected, just to be free to touch her after so long, and he became even giddier when Sara responded to his touch by throwing her arm over his chest and snuggling her face into his neck, then heaving a deep sigh.

Knowing that he was breaking their rule of silence, yet concerned about where this was going, he whispered, "Sara?"

"Hmm," she answered. "Not raping you. Might doze off, though - if I do, don't leave."

As if he wanted to be anywhere except here, with Sara clinging to him.


	36. More Emails

"You look more relaxed," Mark commented cautiously as he helped Sara unload equipment from the truck they'd taken to their scene. "Did you and Grissom settle your differences?"

Sara considered not answering at all, but decided there was nothing to gain by keeping silent. "No, not really. We just managed to have a quiet night with no fights, which is a big accomplishment for us."

"Good for you. But if you're not fighting anymore, why aren't you working together tonight?"

"There is such a thing as too much togetherness, my friend," she said with a smile. "Besides, I miss working with the rest of you guys."

"Oh." Mark ruminated upon that for a moment. "Ok. So . . . what are everyone else's assignments?"

"Grissom and Will are out on a home invasion; Walt and Sophie are - or should be - inside, waiting to catch the next case; Jack's representing our shift at a meeting of the Organized Crime Task Force; and you and I are back here, next in line after Walt and Sophie."

He winced. "Poor Jack - what'd he ever do to you?"

"You know he plays politics much better than I ever could."

"True." He hefted a scene light off the bed of the truck, then shot her a sidelong glance and added, "Grissom and Will seem to be getting chummy. You know anything about that?"

"Not really...just that out of the guys, Grissom seems to feel least threatened by Will."

Mark snorted and echoed, "Threatened."

She gave him a dark look. "Don't you start. I've finally gotten things almost-resolved with the other guy, I don't want to get started with you too."

"Well it's just that he..."

"Enough, Mark." She turned and grabbed a field kit in each hand, saying over her shoulder, "I'll see you inside."

-------------------

Sara opened her laptop and clicked Send/Receive, resigned to the fact that she would find a lot of porn, a few departmental emails, and nothing from her Vegas friends. To her surprise, "Catscratch appeared in the "from" field of one of the first emails that showed up. As her Vegas friends went, she probably wanted to hear from Catherine the least, but beggars couldn't be choosers, and she double-clicked:

_From: Catherine Willows _

_Date: __Monday, August 18th, 2003 __3:02 A.M._

_To: Sara_

_Subject: everyone still alive out there?_

_Sara,_

_I know I'm probably not your favorite person to hear from, but I'm writing anyway. I haven't heard from Grissom - and _no one's _heard from you - in a week, and we're starting to get worried. Have you killed him and buried the body? Or maybe vice versa?_

_I'm not asking for details, since I know there's no way in hell I'm going to get them - I'm just asking for a reply confirming that you're both still alive, ok, and not at each others' throats._

_Well, and a report of how things are going there wouldn't hurt either..._

_- Catherine_

Sara smiled. She had to admit, Catherine knew how to handle her two cantankerous colleagues. No request for details, but she knew very well that they'd likely be forthcoming in any emailed response. She clicked "reply."

_From: Sara _

_Date: __Monday, August 18th, 2003 __9:24 A.M._

_To: Catherine Willows _

_Subject: Re: everyone still alive out there?_

_Cath,_

_Yeah, we're both still alive and kicking. Things have been a little strained lately. I won't get into specifics, but I'll tell you that we've been trying to decide how much longer he's going to be staying (it's still not decided; don't start asking)._

_Since I'm so nice, though, I'll throw you a bone: Grissom's adjusting pretty well to not being in charge. He's worked with just about all of my team members, and gets along with them decently. They're all dying to know who he really is and why he's here, but neither he nor I am about to tell them details._

_I'm starting to think that there ought to be Exchange CSI programs, the way there are Exchange Student programs - I keep seeing things in my guys here and thinking, "Oh he'd be great working with Nick," or "Catherine would set her straight damn quick!"_

_Well anyway, yes we're both alive and we plan to stay that way for the foreseeable future. Say "hi" to Vegas for us._

_- Sara_

-------------------

In Las Vegas, Catherine read Sara's reply and smiled. At least Sara and Grissom were still in the land of the living-and-functioning - but the hints Sara had given were just too tantalizing. She scooted her rolling desk chair to the doorway of the fishbowl office and yelled, "Warrick! We need to brainstorm!"

-------------------

Grissom, still sweating from the - in his opinion - oppressive New Jersey humidity, slumped down in front of the computer in the break room and typed in "http/ Logging on, he hoped there would at least be an entertaining forward waiting in his inbox; he could use some light-heartedness after three hours of being berated by a shrewish housewife who seemed think it was entirely his fault that someone had stolen her Lládro figurines. Whatever a "Lládro" was, he figured it was probably ugly.

Focusing his attention back on the monitor, he blinked. An e-mail from Catherine? Either she was delivering bad news or she was demanding an update, and he wasn't sure which he'd prefer less.

_From: Catherine Willows _

_Date: __Monday, August 18th, 2003 __11:35 A.M._

_To: Grissom _

_Subject: Hello?_

_Gris,_

_Hello? You guys there? I sent Sara an email this morning asking if everything is ok and got a typically short, un-detailed reply. So now it's your turn! Spill it, how are things going out there? Sara says you aren't planning on killing each other, but she doesn't say much more than that. I'm depending on you here, Gil - tell me what's going on! Come on, this is Catherine, who helped you plot and scheme this in the first place, remember?_

_Have you guys even discussed "you"? Have you managed to quit smoking again? Sara's e-mail only whetted my appetite for information, and you know I can give you good advice for dealing with females._

_Ok, I'm starting to repeat myself. Anyway, write back and fill me in._

_-Cath_

He groaned inwardly. What to do? Leaning back in his seat, he scratched his ear and pondered for a moment, then sat up again and started typing:

_From: Grissom _

_Date: Monday, August 18th, 2003 12:18 A.M._

_To: Catherine Willows _

_Subject: Re: Hello?_

_Cath,_

_Shameless, aren't you? You just want to hear the newest gossip! Ok, ok, I can't say I blame you. I guess Sara and I are probably the closest thing to a soap opera you nocturnal workers have. _

_Like Sara said, we haven't killed each other yet. We had a big blow-up yesterday - I was fed up with waiting around for a sign and she thought I was being too competitive with her pet CSI, Mark - but we've sort of resolved it. Basically, I went into her office and said, "I'm sick of this, if there's going to be a move made you'll have to make it," and she couldn't think of anything to say to that. But then later on, after we got home from work, she asked for a sort of truce, and we decided that we would just do our best to spend a night enjoying ourselves and not talking about anything that induces fighting. Before you say it, it has occurred to me that I was being stupid, and angering her is not the best way to win her heart, but argh, that woman can drive me nuts!_

_So since you've opened the door, I'll ask for some advice. I am really tired of making the moves. I feel like I'm pushing her, and you know I'm not that sort of person. However, my attempt to tell her that and ask her to make the decisions ended up in a big fight. So, how should I go about it? What's a way to tell her to start acting without pissing her off or scaring her away?_

_Anyway, say hello to everyone in the lab for me and Sara._

_-Gil_

_-------------------_

Catherine flipped open her cell phone and hit the speed-dial combination for Warrick's number.

" 'Lo Cath," he answered, obviously having checked his caller ID.

"Hi. I got an answer from Grissom," she rushed, not bothering with pleasantries.

"And?"

"Well he wasn't as open as I would have liked, but for him it was pretty good. He basically says he's tired of having to be the pursuer, but when he tried to tell Sara that, it sparked an argument. Also, Sara has a 'pet CSI'."

"A...what?"

"His words, not mine - that Mark guy Sara talked about in the very beginning. Do I detect a hint of jealousy in Grissom's phrasing?"

"Sounds like it. Poor guy's so turned around he doesn't know which way is up!"

"No kidding." She sighed. "Well, he asked for my advice about how to explain things to Sara. What do you think I should tell him?"

Warrick, on his end, raised his eyebrows. "You're the relationship person, not me."

"Come on, I need some input, here!"

"Ok, ok. Well...what did he try that didn't work?"

"Basically, he marched into her office and announced that if she didn't do the chasing from now on, there wouldn't be any chasing."

"Ouch! Sometimes I wonder about him, you know?"

"Ohhh yeah. But come on, think!"

"Hmmm. Well he could try not saying anything at all, and just start acting 'normal'. But Sara would probably spot something contrived in that, too."

"Yeah, that's kind of what I thought too," Catherine said. "Can you think of a way that he can have the discussion without getting her back up?"

"Well, it kind of depends on how they're interacting. I mean, if it were me in that situation I would probably try to right before bed, because everyone tends to be more mellow then. But somehow the concepts of Grissom, Sara, and bed don't go together in my head."

She laughed. "Well, he is staying at her apartment. Hell, for all we know they've got a rollicking sex life..."

Warrick, at a loss for a reply, shuddered.

"...or maybe not," Catherine finished. "But you're right that people tend to be mellow before bed. So ok, I'm putting that on my 'List of Things Grissom Should Try'. What else have you got?"

"Uh...I can't think of anything else at the moment. What have you got?"

"I was going to suggest he write it out. For most people, and probably for Grissom especially, things come out better when you have time to thing everything out before someone else hears it."

"That's a good one, Cath. I like it!"

"That was my best idea. You think of anything else?"

"Nope."

"Ok, well, I'll email this to him. I'm crossing my fingers for them!"

"Me too. Bye."

"Bye."


	37. The letter

Grissom re-read the last paragraph of Catherine's email and sighed. He been hoping for something concrete - a script, perhaps - not general advice like _wait until right before bed_. All the same, he told himself, something was better than nothing, and the idea of writing down his argument was slightly more attractive than confronting Sara face to face.

But they hadn't told him _what_ to write! The whole problem was that he didn't know which words to use! He groaned.

Will, who had been walking by, heard the noise and stuck his head into the room. "Everything ok in here?"

Grissom sighed again and rubbed his temples. "Not really, but it's nothing you need to worry about."

"Sara, huh?"

"What?"

"Sara. She's the only thing that seems to unsettle you. Plus, she's one of the few things you won't talk to anyone about."

He was that transparent? He would have to try to keep his mouth shut around Sara's team, he decided.

"Well, I'll leave you to it," Will said, interrupting Grissom's recriminations. "I get the distinct impression that you don't feel like chatting right now."

Grissom watched the younger man disappear down the hall, then turned his attention back to the computer. Should he type the letter? Hand-write it? Typing it would allow him to make corrections as he went and thus yield a much neater product...but it seemed so impersonal. The human element would come through much more clearly if he hand-wrote it, but then he'd either have to give her a note full of cross-outs and erasures or he'd have to copy the note multiple times to get it right.

After a moment, it occurred to him that he could draft it on the computer, then hand-write it when he had it perfect. He let out a breath, stretched his hands, and looked down at the keyboard.

An hour later, he re-read it before putting it in its envelope:

_Dear Sara,_

_I'm writing this because, as we both know, I'm terrible at getting my words out when I'm face-to-face with you. Please don't think that it's because I'm avoiding you or the issue, because I'm not._

_So...what I'm writing about is basically what I tried to tell you yesterday and screwed up so completely: why I'm here and what I'm hoping to accomplish._

_On the surface, I'm here because you wanted to help me stop smoking, but we both know there's more to it. I wanted a second chance with you, and it took you moving across the country to get me to realize it. I emailed you that day hoping that, if I crafted my words carefully enough, you'd be able to understand what I wanted to tell you. I think it worked, to some extent; after all, I'm here. _

_I didn't get it quite right, though. I wanted a second chance, and you've given me one...but I've discovered that it's not enough._

_I've taken the chance. I feel like I've had some minor successes (and many minor failures) doing it, but what I don't know is whether my second chance, as a whole, was a success. Lately, it seems to be disaster after disaster, and instead of bringing you closer to me, it seems to have pushed you away. I seem to have pushed you away._

_I've tried so hard to make things up to you, to show you that I've changed and I'm ready, but now...I'm at a loss. I've done, used, said everything I know how to and yet you still seem unwilling to let me in._

_I'm played out, Sara. That's what I was trying to tell you yesterday. The next move has to be yours, because there are no more steps that I can take by myself._

_I wasn't trying to control you. I wasn't trying to start a fight. I wasn't even trying to pull back from you, although I know it sounded like it._

_Well, that's basically what I wrote this to express. I want to move forward, Sara, but I can't do that unless (or until) you're with me wholeheartedly. Or at least three-quarter heartedly. The next step, if there is to be one, has to be a step taken by us, not by me alone or you alone._

_I hope I've explained myself a little better this way. I'm going to give this letter to you before we go to bed tonight and let you take it into your room to read. Please don't feel like you need to give me an answer tonight; just promise me you'll think about things._

_This is as close to begging as I've ever come with you: please, decide what you're ready or not ready for. Tell me when you've made that decision. Even if you decide you don't want to pursue this, please know that my feelings about you won't change. I want you to be happy, even if you can't be happy with me, and I'll accept whichever option you believe will accomplish that._

_Love,_

_Gil_

A few hours later, Grissom stood up from Sara's kitchen table and yawned. "I think I'm going to go to bed early tonight. Tonight's cases wore me out."

Sara looked at him in confusion. "You're going to go to bed? Now? You don't want to do anything? Watch TV, talk...?"

"No," he said, trying to sound cheerful. "I'm just too tired."

"Oh." She blinked. "Ok. I guess I'll go read in my room or something."

This was it. He dug deep for whatever courage he could muster and said, "I have something I'd like you to read while you're in there."

"What?" she said, looking intrigued. "A new file? A cold case?"

"No..." he said slowly, drawing the slightly crumpled envelope from his pocket and holding it out to her. "This."

Sara took it automatically and examined it: a plain white envelope with just her name written on the front in Grissom's familiar scrawl. "What is it?"

"I can't talk about it right now. Please, just read it when you're in bed."

Scowling at him, she slid a finger under the flap and started prying it open, but before she could open more than an inch Grissom had grabbed her hand. "Please don't."

"Grissom...what _is_ this?"

"Sara, _please_!"

She sighed. "Ok, fine. I'll indulge you. But this better be something good!"

"I hope it is," he said with a tired smile. "Good night."

"G'night, Gris."

More apprehensive than he could remember ever being, he watched her turn and walk to her bedroom.

Later that night, Grissom lay on the futon in his pajamas. He had the TV on, with an old episode of _Columbo_ playing, but he wasn't really watching it. A book lay open in front of him, but he wasn't really reading that, either.

What he_ was _doing was trying to mentally catalogue all the possible responses Sara could give him. There was the plain old _Yes,__ I'm ready_, for one. And the corresponding, _No, I'd be happier without you._ What was driving him nuts, though, were the dozens of possibilities lying between the two extremes. She could say _I'm not ready to make a decision_, or _I think we need to go into this slowly_. Maybe she'd skirt the issue entirely and just yell at him for not being brave enough to speak to her in person. Maybe she'd write a letter of her own back to him. Then there were always _You're__ pushing me _and _Do we have to do this now?_

For all he knew, he reminded himself, she might say _Marry me_ or _I never want to see you again_. _I'm in love with someone else. _Maybe _I don't know what I feel_ or _I'm still not sure of you_. She might put on her stubborn face and insist that _I'm not talking about this_. Maybe she just wouldn't say anything, and he would be expected to infer her response from that.

Still thinking of responses, Grissom drifted off to sleep.


	38. Guessing games

Grissom woke up when he felt something tickle the corner of his mouth. He sniffled and put his hand up to scratch the offending area, but instead found his hand captured and held against his chest. There was a strange weight on his legs that shouldn't have been there, either. Awake now, in the face of this strangeness, he opened his eyes.

Staring down at him from mere inches away, a pair of brown eyes shone in the dark.

"Sara?" he said, trying to banish the last dregs of sleep and clear his mind.

"Hi." She didn't move, only kept staring into his eyes.

There was something wrong with this, his brain informed him. "Sara?" he tried again.

"It's me," she said this time, and saw the corners of her eyes crinkle the way they did when she smiled her girlish smile.

After a few seconds of fishing madly for an appropriate comment, he managed, "Why are you staring at me?"

"Because you have pretty eyes."

"Huh?" Of all possible responses to his question that he could list, _you have pretty eyes_ was not one of them.

"They're really, really blue," she continued, as though commenting on his eyes was a perfectly valid pastime at - he checked the clock on the VCR - three in the morning.

"Uh, and yours are brown. Are we going somewhere with this?"

"Where do you want to go?" she responded with what he was sure was a note of flirtatiousness in her voice.

"Uh..." He took his hand back from her and gently pushed at her arms, trying to move her away from him. "How about back to reality?"

She allowed him to push her upper body away slightly, but refused to give up her position straddling his legs. "This is reality."

"This cannot possibly be reality, unless one of us has finally lost our last thread of sanity."

"Hmm," she said thoughtfully, tapping her chin and looking momentarily distracted. "That's a distinct possibility." Then she shifted her weight to her other leg.

"Come on, Sara, get off me." _And stop that wiggling_, he mentally added.

"You want me to get off of you?"

Was there ever a more loaded question than that? He worked it over in his mind for a moment, trying to figure out an appropriate answer. "It depends on your definition of _want_," he finally said. "While I am enjoying the experience as a whole, I'm pretty sure this is not a good activity in the middle of the night."

"Seems to me that this is the_ best _activity for the middle of the night."

"Sara!"

"You really don't like this?" She traced a finger down his jaw line and then back up to his mouth, where she softly touched his lips.

"_Get up_," he growled, knowing that things would only get worse if he allowed her to keep touching him.

Sara refused to be moved, but did take her hand away from his face. Meeting his eyes again, she said in her normal, straightforward tone, "I read your letter."

The words hit Grissom like a bucket of cold water. God, that letter...what did she mean? Was she going to give him an answer? "Oh?"

"Mmhmm." Her hand was back on his face. "I understand what you were trying to say now."

When she hadn't added anything more after a few seconds, Grissom prompted, "And?"

"Hmm?" she mumbled, sounding like she'd forgotten what they were discussing. "Your hair feels nice."

"Don't," he said. "I asked you to think about it, not forget about it."

"I did think about it."

"You did?"

"Yep."

"But it's only been a few hours."

Tired of bending over him, she put one of her hands on each of his thighs and leaned her weight back on them. "I'm a quick thinker."

"And...you made a decision?"

"Uh-huh." She continued to look at him with no discernable emotion on her face.

"_What_ did you decide?" Grissom prompted, getting annoyed.

"I decided..." She moved her hands again, this time putting them on the bed next to each of his shoulders, then added, "Are you sure you want to talk about this? You said you didn't want an answer tonight."

"I am giving you ten seconds to get off me, Sara."

"What happens if I don't?"

"I don't know," he said, exasperated. "But you won't like it."

She didn't move. "There isn't much you can do that I won't like."

He was out of ideas along this line and decided to try a different tactic. He put his hands behind his head as though he was about to take a nap, and looked up at her face, which was mere inches away. "Are you going to give me an answer? Or should I be prepared to just deal with this kind of stuff all night?"

"I'm going to give you an answer," she assured him, bending her elbows so her chest was low enough to brush his.

"Sara! This isn't funny anymore. _Please, _give me an answer. I don't care what it is."

"Let's use our deductive powers, shall we?" Sara teased. "You tell me one of the possible responses I'm sure you thought of, and I'll tell you why it's right or wrong."

His face darkened, partly with embarrassment and partly with anger. "This isn't a game."

"It is now," she said, bending her elbows more so that her weight rested almost entirely on him. "Now come on, ask."

"Fine!" he said, deciding that if this was the only way he'd get an answer, he'd force himself to play along. Best to eliminate the worst options first: "Is your answer, 'No, I can't stand you'?"

"Mm-mm," Sara said with a smile, shaking her head teasingly. "I don't compliment the eyes of people I can't stand. Try again."

" 'I don't want to talk about this'?"

"Nooo..." She lowered her head so her lips almost touched his. "If I didn't want to talk about it, I wouldn't have come out of my room. What else have you got?"

Grissom sighed, eyeing those lips that were inching closer. "How about, 'I'm not ready to make a decision and I don't know if I ever will be'?"

She leaned to the side and whispered into his ear, "I thought about that for a while, but decided that it was going to suck for you and me both if I didn't decide."

Grissom shivered when her warm breath hit his skin. "'I've decided that I'm not interested'?"

"Do I look uninterested?" she asked, returning her eyes to his face. "You're too much fun for me not to be interested in."

Things were looking up. "What about, 'I'd like to try it, but we have to move very slowly'."

"Hmm..." She twitched her hips the tiniest bit. "Slowly...don't think so. I've never been able to do anything slowly around you."

His mood was improving as she eliminated each negative outcome. "'I'm in love with someone else'?"

"What!" Sara squawked right into his face. "You've got to be insane if you believe that one. I don't complement the eyes of a guy if I'm in love with someone else, either."

"'I'm still not sure of you'?" he guessed.

"If I weren't sure of you, I wouldn't be out here," she said, letting her lips brush against his jaw.

He was smiling now. "How about 'I hereby pledge my eternal love and devotion and promise to do absolutely anything Grissom asks of me'?"

"Hah! I can just imagine the things you'd milk _that _for. 'Sara, feed my bugs.' 'Sara, do my paperwork.' 'Sara, go deal with Ecklie.' Not a chance, Gris."

"Okay..." he said slowly, reaching up and resting a hand on each of her hips. He flexed his fingers a little, feeling the areas of skin where her shirt had ridden up. "How about... 'Yes, I'm ready'."

"Why Grissom," she said with a teasing smile, "you figured it out! I always knew that genius brain of yours would eventually kick in."

"Yes?" he said again, needing to hear her to confirm it.

"Yes."

"You're ready?"

"Mmm." Leaning down, she kissed him while one of her hands moved to his chest, exploring. "Moreready than you'd ever believe."

THE END

A/N: Whoa, I don't know what happened here. I hadn't planned for this story to end so abruptly, but once I sat down with pencil and paper, this is what came out. I hope you've enjoyed the saga!

A/N 2: There may be an epilogue coming for this, about what happens when they return to the real world and have to deal. I haven't yet decided whether I want to do it.


	39. Epilogue

A/N: Ok, ok, I give in. Every single person who reviewed the last chapter asked for an epilogue, so...here ya go :) But really, this is the end, I swear

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sara glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching, then clicked the AIM icon. Technically, using lab computers for non-work activities was a no-no, but she really wanted to check on things, and they were slow tonight anyway. She checked her buddy list; he was signed on, as she'd expected.

SidleS: Hey! It's been a while, how are things going there?

CSIMark: Not bad, we all miss you though.

SidleS: Any good cases?

CSIMark: Well, we had a decomp the other night and I know how much you love those...

SidleS: Eww! Glad I missed it!

CSIMark: ...but Sam pulled some cool blowflies off of it. We both thought Grissom would have loved them.

SidleS: I'll tell him you're thinking about him every time you see a bug, how's that?

CSIMark: Fair enough. But really, we miss you both. You never told me how much office politics sucks for the person in charge!

SidleS: Hah, that was the point! If I'd told you, you'd have chained me down and refused to let Grissom have me!

CSIMark: Hell yeah

CSIMark: Oh, and per Will's orders, I'm supposed to tell you that Jack and Sophie went on their first date last week

SidleS: Oh my god! How did it go? I can't believe they waited til Gil and I were gone to get together!

CSIMark: Did Grissom ever tell you about the behind-the-scenes plotting he did to get them together?

SidleS: No, what'd he do?

CSIMark: Ah, I think you'll have to ask him about that. Far be it from me to spill his secrets!

CSIMark: Oh, and speaking of politics...how are things on your end? I know you were really worried about what would happen

SidleS: Mmm, they're not exactly what I'd call "comfy," but no one's tried to fire either of us so far. Ecklie gives us a lot of dirty looks (and Greg makes a lot of dirty jokes!), but his hands are tied by the director's edict. No firing of the best workers!

CSIMark: Always knew something good would come of working your asses off, right?

SidleS: Exactly!

SidleS: Oops, hey, I gotta go. Grissom just came in...

SidleS: He says we have a case and to tell you you still can't have me

SidleS: Even if you have tattoos and he doesn't

CSIMark: I didn't know he even knew I had them!

SidleS: Oh, you'd be surprised at what he can get me to spill when he puts his mind to it...

CSIMark: Uh-oh! Should I tell everyone to stay on guard?

SidleS: Nah, you know neither of us would do anything that might hurt you (or your careers, or your love lives...)

CSIMark: Well, I'll be thankful for that. Listen, call us sometime, ok? Everybody whines that I'm the only one who gets to talk to you anymore

SidleS: Well maybe if the boss let them use work computers...

SidleS: Ok, really gotta go now. He's giving me a look that has "Five seconds til I assign you a saliva case" written all over it

SidleS: Say hi to everyone, and make fun of J & S for me!

CSIMark: Ok, I will. I'm sure they'll just love it

SidleS: Talk to you later

CSIMark: Ok, bye


End file.
